


Smoke and Mirrors

by bluRaaven



Category: Darkest Dungeon (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Friendship, M/M, Violence, silliness and unprofessional conduct included, the biker man gets to do the swat man
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-29
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-02-07 14:10:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12842817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluRaaven/pseuds/bluRaaven
Summary: El Abuelo is the most notorious of crime bosses, and it falls to Special Agent Reynauld Maurouard to take him down.  His only lead: Dismas, an ex-bandit whose outfit was in the mobster's hire.Things go downhill from there.





	1. Reynauld

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get this out of my head since writing Cheap Thrills. So, here it is. Tactical Buttcheeks for everyone.

Special Agent Reynauld Maurouard couldn't say that filling out forms was his favourite occupation, but paperwork was a necessary evil when you worked in law enforcement.  When a shadow fell over him, blocking out the light, he put down his pen and straightened.  Reynauld could have sworn that he could hear as well as feel some disks in his back pop into place.  Or out of it.  Something to worry about later. 

"How's it going?" the man leaning on his desk asked, a faint smile playing around his mouth as he surveyed the battlefield that was Reynauld's workspace. 

"How'd you think?" Reynauld grunted, rubbing his hands over his face until he saw stars.  For the past hour the letters had been running together, but he needed to finish this before tomorrow or he'd have his superiors breathing down his neck.  "I'm elbows deep in reports." 

"Ain't we all?" Guyot asked.  In the clinically cold light of the neon lamps the dark circles around his eyes were all the more prominent, and his freckles were a stark contrast to his pale skin.  He looked just as exhausted as Reynauld felt. 

As if he had read his thoughts, Guyot lifted a silver can, giving it an inviting swirl, and instantly the rich aroma of roasted beans permeated the stale office air.  "Coffee?"

When he saw Reynauld hesitating, he was quick to add, "It's good, I tested it.  On Marci."  Guyot looked around, guilt written all over his face, but in the end he just shrugged and grinned sheepishly. 

Reynauld chuckled.  When some higher ups had thought it a great idea to put the PD and forensics in the same building – talk about corruption – and some of the doctors were evidently as mentally unstable as the criminals they pursued, caution saved you from getting yourself into a lot of trouble.  "Is she still among the living?"

"Aye, the living _and_ the conscious," Guyot replied easily.  

"Then yes, please."  Reynauld had to shift some folders to find his mug buried underneath them and held it out for Guyot to fill. 

Which he did, right up to the brim, eying some of the papers strewn all over the desk in the process.  "What'cha got here?  Montgomery case?" 

"M-hmm," Reynauld hummed and took a sip of scalding hot fermented–bean–juice.  He  closed his eyes for a moment to savour it. 

"What a shitshow," Guyot observed.  "Don't get me wrong,  I'm glad we got him.  Just because the man was in politics and old money, don't mean he's above justice."  He stopped; they'd talked more than their fair share about it.  The case had been all over the news for weeks, and by now everybody who had worked on it was fed up with it.  It was time to wrap it up and to move on. 

"Anyway, the guys wanna know if you're coming to the track run.  We're up against the boys from Eastside distinct."

 _Track run_.  That rang a bell.  Reynauld frowned; he had quite forgotten about the charity event.  "When's it?" 

"Next weekend." 

"I can't," Reynauld replied and didn't have to fake the regret.  Those competition between departments were usually a lot of fun and a good way to get to know new people, make some contacts.  "Thio's over, and I promised him we'll go camping." 

"Aw, damn.  We're losing our best man."  But Guyot said it with a smile.  He knew how much those weekends meant to Reynauld.  "How is the big man?" 

"Growing bigger every day."  The thought of his son never failed to put a smile on Reynauld's face.  "I can't believe he's about to turn eight.  Eve wanted to have a party.  You're invited of course, provided you can stand a horde of children high on sugar. 

"You know I'd never miss out, and Lucy's been wanting to visit anyway.  We'll pop in, say hi, and evac if it gets too bad."  Guyot laughed and Reynauld had to join in.  Fair was fair.  They had served in the army together, and when they had quit the force it had been his friend's contacts that had given Reynauld a job here in the city. 

"Chin up, soldier.  One more week and it's over," Guyot said.  "Maybe the chief's even gonna give you a promotion!"

Reynauld snorted at the thought, which should be answer enough.  If you couldn't find pride in the police work but wanted praise, you had to join the K-9 units.  As a dog.  On most days, Reynauld did enjoy it; doing something good, something useful.  He thanked Guyot for the offering of artificial energy that would get him through the evening and waved when the other man took his leave. 

Just a few more hours, and he'd be able to go home.  Put a lid on the whole thing and give himself a pat on the shoulder.  From a framed picture, one of the few private possessions he kept at work, Reynauld's family was smiling at him. 

He sighed and picked up his pen again.   

 

Reynauld wished a person could refuel on good mood like a vehicle could on gasoline, because Monday came cloaked in chaos, like a true harbinger of a bad week. 

Over the weekend, he had taken Thio out of the city and to a natural preserve that had a nice lake and easy trails.  Maybe when his son was older, Reynauld would be able to take him hiking in the Hinterlands, but that would be in a couple of years at the earliest. 

Now, he was running late for work since his alarm had given up on life sometime in the middle of the night.  Thanks to years of military service and an affinity for the early morning hours, he still managed to wake almost on time.  Maintenance works on the train rails forced him to take his car however, and he promptly found himself stuck in an unmoving column of other unfortunate souls braving the morning traffic. 

When he had finally made it to the intersection, he almost had an accident when some idiot on a motorbike ran a red light and cut him off, disappearing between a delivery van and a taxi before Reynauld had a chance to catch his plate number. 

The rest of the drive passed without incident, thankfully.  The RPD, the Riverside Police Department, was located some two miles outside of the city center, and just about ten walking minutes from the Riverside train station.  The building had a long history, beginning with it originally being built as a summer residence for Emperor Harauld.  Since then it had served as university, a hospital, and finally the casern it was to this day. 

There was nothing inherently inviting about the grey and cheerless stonework, but it was far from the worst place to work.  In the large courtyard, Barristan had some sweaty-looking recruits in training clothes lined up.  Reynauld returned the wave the one-eyed drill sergeant greeted him with, and hurried on. 

As soon as he pulled open the door, he was struck by the lack of usual activity.  The quiet of the waiting room was disturbed only by the hum of the ceiling fan, its blades rotating lazily.  The air was thick with the smells of stale coffee and smoke, even though smoking inside had been prohibited by law several years ago.  Underlying those was a faint odour of _office_ : a less-than enticing mix of sweat, paper, and cleaning agents. 

There was nobody seated behind the two front desks, and that was unusual enough to make Reynauld double-check his mobile and pager, nervous about maybe having overlooked a message.  Special Weapons And Tactics carried those to call them to operations too dangerous for regular police officers to handle.  Riot control wasn't much of an issue these days anymore, so they mostly handled search warrants and cases that involved organized crime, which in turn were usually linked to weapon or narcotics dealership, or illegal betting.  They had special training; and were authorized to carry military equipment, but the rest of the time, they were law enforcement agents like any other.  Reynauld did  his fair share of patrols, reports and other sorts of office work. 

Both the pager and his phone's screens were blank, so he had not missed some emergency.  He decided to go to his office first; maybe Guyot would be able to tell him what was going on.  He never got that far though, because Reynauld almost collided with Marci when he jogged up the stairs. 

"Where is everyone?" 

"Mallory's office," the young police officer replied, sounding out of breath.  "Linesi's taken out two teams – there has been another robbery." 

Another one.  Reynauld's heart sank.  "Where?" 

"Central," Maci replied, biting her lip. 

Reynauld nodded, and hurried past her.  Mallory saw him and waved from the door to her office.  She was a tall, no-nonsense kind of person who wore her black hair short and whom he had never seen out of a suit.  She had worked her way up to deputy director and it was generally assumed she would one day replace the Chief when he retired. 

She was holding a meeting, and a grapevine of people was clustered in the room which seemed too small all of a sudden.  Gatherings like this didn't usually happen unless it was someone's birthday or something bad had occurred.  Reynauld didn't need Marci to tell him which one this was, he could have guessed by the absence of cake and smiles upon the faces of those around him. 

Reynauld took up position in the back of the group.  He had to stand on his toes to be able to look over all their heads and see what held their attention.  The flatscreen was playing footage from what could only be a security camera.  Reynauld had missed most of it, but he arrived just in time to see a black-masked burglar breathe steam on the camera's lens.  The quality of the recording was not good enough to tell whether it was a man or a woman before fog was all they could see.  And then a heart appeared where the condensation was wiped away with the tip of one finger.  Seconds later, the tv flickered to black, and that was it. 

In the silence that followed one would have been able to hear a pin drop.  And that was saying something since the office was carpeted. 

"When did this happen?" Reynauld finally asked when he realized nobody else was going to. 

"We received the tape this morning," Mallory answered, and turned off the television with an annoyed flick of her wrist.  "This was recorded on Sunday evening."

"I thought the cemetery had a security firm doing surveillance, and we'll get notified as soon as something happens?" someone to Reynauld's right called out. 

A muscle in Mallory's jaw twitched, but her tone did not betray her frustration.  "They disabled the security system," she informed them. 

"Shit!" somebody else cursed, which earned them a glower from Mallory, but by then the room had burst into chaos; everybody was calling out ideas and talking one over the other. 

"Rey."  Mallory's hand landed on his shoulder a moment later, and her voice lowered, despite the chance of being overheard being close to zero.  "The Chief wants a word." 

Reynauld nodded at her and left the room, leaving her to bring back order to the meeting.  His boss was not the most patient of men, and there was no reason to antagonize him, especially since he very much did not want to draw attention to his tardiness. 

The Chief's office was at the end of the second story corridor.  A golden plate was screwed to the door, but Reynauld did not even glance at it.  His knuckles had barely made contact with the wood when he was told to enter, and he stepped into Chief Vvulf's domain. 

The room was just like he remembered it.  Most of it was taken up by a large desk, and the walls were lined with shelves that were slowly beginning to bend under their load.  At some point an effort had been made to make the office look more homely, but the plants had not lasted long.  The Chief had kept but one, and the fact that it was a cactus really spoke for itself. 

He was in his middle years, with short grey hair and the figure of a powerful man who was slowly getting out of shape.  "What did she tell you?" the Chief began without so much as a word of greeting.  He was seated in a big leather armchair behind his desk. 

Guessing that he must have meant Mallory, Reynauld answered, "The central cemetery was hit by a masked felon nicknamed the Graverobber."

The Chief nodded, then made a hand gesture for Reynauld to close the door and take a seat.  "This ain't for everybody's ears," he grunted. 

"Sir?" 

Vvulf laced his fingers together on his stomach, fixing his unblinking gaze on Reynauld.  "There's no point tiptoeing around it.  I don't shout it from the rooftops, but my family's history goes back a long way.  The mausoleum that was hit yesterday wasn't just anyone.  These attacks are have become a personal matter now.  We, the police, are being targeted, and the situation has gotten out of control." 

Reynauld had not known that the Chief was related to any of the old nobility, but then perhaps the knowledge should not surprise him; one did not rise to the rank of Chief without some good connections.  There was very little Reynauld actually knew about the man who was his boss, despite having worked for him for years.  Vvulf was someone who valued his privacy and didn't get too friendly with his subordinates. 

"So we take down the ones responsible," Reynauld deducted, still unsure why he was here.  Certainly it was not so that his boss could make that little confession? 

"You're a smart man, Maurouard," Vvulf pointed out, a hint of irritation in his voice. 

"You don't think they're acting out of their own agenda," Reynauld deduced, remembering the video Mallory had shown them.  The Graverobber's actions had struck him as being... provocative, almost.  They certainly had wanted to be seen, maybe to send some kind of message. 

"No.  I do not," the Chief confirmed with a pleased nod.  "Whether we like it or not, the old families are the foundation which this city is built upon." 

Reynauld noticed he spoke as if he did not belong to one of them, despite his earlier admission.   

"And there are those who would benefit from weakening it, from sowing discord, uncertainty and fear.  From making _us_ look weak and incompetent.  If the people do not feel safe," the Chief said and leaned forward on his elbows as if he was to share a great secret, "Whom will they turn to for protection?" 

"So these attacks are not a coincidence," Reynauld summed up.  Everybody had presumed as much, but they still lacked solid proof.  "And you suspect one of the northern cartels?" 

Vvulf was shaking his head before Reynauld had even finished speaking.  "Not just any one of them."  Reynauld wanted to ask if he really thought _he_ could be behind all this, but the Chief continued.  "El Abuelo has plenty of reason to target us," Vvulf pointed out.  "We may not know what his final goal is, but men like him feed off chaos.  They always look for weaknesses, for a way to expand their power.  We need to stop him – ," the Chief broke off abruptly, and Reynauld imagined he could hear the ghost of an _at all costs_. 

He did not comment.  El Abuelo was one of the, if not _the_ most notorious of crime bosses.  Reynauld was still trying to come to terms with everything he had learned, when Vvulf said,

"I want you to be the Special Agent in Charge on this case." 

"Me?" 

"Do you see anyone else in this room?" Vvulf demanded to know.  "Yes, you." 

"Why?" Reynauld blurted out, which, in hindsight, probably wasn't the smartest thing to say.  He was still reeling from all the information – a moment ago he had not even known there was a case; now he had been told he was to lead a major investigation that involved one of the most dangerous men in the North.  And was not the most experienced man the Chief had, and huge cases like this were usually given to the senior officers. 

Vvulf's lips pursed in thought.  "You did some good work," he finally said, but even guff praise from the Chief was quite something.  "I like that you are efficient and discreet and I trust you to handle delicate matters without causing a scandal.  This is your chance, Maurouard.  Prove me I'm right, and who knows, this seat might one day belong to you," he added and laughed at his own joke, a rare sign he had a sense of humour, buried somewhere deep inside. 

The corner of Reynauld's mouth tugged upwards.  "Thinking about retiring, Sir?"  It would be hard to imagine the PD without Vvulf there to lead them, he was such a huge personality.  A tough boss with high expectations, but a fair one. 

"There's one of them Southern beaches that has my name on it," Vvulf said, but his eyes were already narrowing.  "You look like there's something on your mind.  Spit it out, what is it?" 

"I was actually hoping to take some time off," Reynauld confessed.  He was tired from merely thinking about the upcoming work load.  He deserved a vacation, and he still had three weeks good from last year that he was going to lose soon – as his boss knew very well. 

Vvulf leaned back, making his leather armchair creak.  "Tell you what," he decided.  "If time wasn't of the essence, I'd let you go right now.  I will let you keep your three weeks, and if we get El Abuelo, I'll top it off with a month of paid leave _extra_ , so you can spend some time with your boy – family's everything, after all.  How does that sound?" 

"Sounds like a deal, Sir."  Reynauld could barely believe the offer he'd been made; it was quite unheard of.  But he trusted his boss not to pull him over.  And if they got El Abuelo, Vvulf would be basking in the attention of the media.  He might even be hailed a city hero. 

"Excellent," the Chief said, sounding pleased.  "You'll be happy to know we already have a lead." 

That certainly was news.  "We do?" Reynauld asked, cocking his brow. 

"The Graverobber is not operating on his or her own," Vvulf replied.  "There is no way they could disable the security system _and_ rob the mausoleum in time before we were alerted of the shutdown.  They have an accomplice."  The Chief turned and got up, reaching to take a folder off the shelf behind him.  He dropped it on the table and flipped it towards Reynauld who opened it. 

The first page was taken up by a close-up of a man's face.  For reasons unknown the photograph was black and white, but Reynauld did not need colour to recognize him. 

"Dismas," he said, remembering the name because it was actually that of the penitent thief from the Verse of Light.  An alias then. 

Reynauld wasn't sure if the rogue was ballsy, or merely an arsehole. 

"Aye," Vvulf confirmed, his greying brows drawing together.  "One right bloody fucker.  He's guilty of more than some harmless misconduct too.  The man's an ex-bandit, and former member of the Wolves." 

Reynauld flipped the first page.  There was a list of information they had managed to collect on the man.  The first line read:

Real name:  Valance Paixdecoeur.

"Paixdecoeur," Reynauld said slowly, thinking.  "Is the name given to orphans raised by the Order." 

Vvulf nodded.  "I see I chose the right man for the job.  Pick your team, Maurouard, and get started straight away.  This has top priority from now on until I tell you otherwise. " 

Reynauld closed the folder with a snap and picked it up, resting it against the crook of his elbow.  "What about the Montgomery case, Sir?" 

"Just hand it over to someone else," Vvulf said.  "Mallory will handle it, if no one else will.  You can report to her, if I'm not here." 

Reynauld nodded,  "You said Dismas  ran with the Wolves?"  He had heard a lot about the gang, but it had fallen apart and its members had scattered when their leader had disappeared.  Apparently there had been some sort of falling out between who they only knew as the Wolf, and El Abuelo. 

"The Wolf was El Abuelo's hireling," the Chief said after a brief pause.  "Therefore, if we find _him_ ," Vvulf said, tapping one fat finger against picture-Dismas' temple, "Maybe we can retrace his connection right back to the source." 

"Do we know his whereabouts then?" Reynauld wanted to know.  Despite himself, he couldn't help but feel a spark of excitement.  The Wolf had disappeared a little bit over a decade ago – either laying low, or killed by El Abuelo himself.  Even if he was alive, he had had enough time to cover his tracks.  It was unlikely they would find him – unlikely, but not impossible. 

"Unfortunately, we do not," Vvulf confirmed Reynauld's suspicion.  "Every time we were tipped off and the team's gotten close, he has slipped through our nets.  Man doesn't hang out in one place for very long.  The good thing is: We got somebody who was close to him." 

"How do you know-" 

Vvulf waved his hand in a dismissing gesture and Reynauld dropped that thread to ask a far more important question. 

"Has he told us anything?" 

"Not yet," the Chief said in a tone that made it crystal clear he would, sooner rather than later – even if he had to wring the answers out of the prisoner himself.  "But he will.  And when he does, I want you and your team to be ready.  This could be the biggest strike against organized crime in fifty years!" 

"Yes, Sir!" Reynauld saluted the Chief with the folder and turned on his heel.  Guyot was the first one on his team.  They had an uncatchable criminal to capture.  Reynauld had always liked a challenge. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read Thio as "Theo", not "Thayo"


	2. Dismas

"I thought you wanted to quit?" 

Dismas jerked and cursed when the cigarette he was about to roll slipped through his fingers, spilling brown tobacco leaves into his lap. 

"Shite!"  He turned to glower at the woman who smirked at him from behind a glass full of what Dismas hoped was wine, and not blood.  With Audrey, you could never be sure.  "What's wrong with ya?" 

Audrey shrugged and sashayed over to kiss his cheek in welcome.  Dismas got a whiff of the heady perfume that surrounded her like a cocoon, the effect of which was only slightly spoiled by the alcohol on her breath.  Audrey then gracefully sank down onto the seat his feet had been up on just a moment before.  

"I thought you were on a date tonight," Dismas asked, eying the blonde's high heeled boots which reached just above her knees, and her form-fitting dress.  With her nails painted black and dark red lipstick, she looked like she had stepped out of one of those old spy movies; the ones where all the men wore coats and hats, and the women were as likely to seduce the protagonist as they were to poison him.  He liked Audrey, she was one of his closest friends – not that he had many of those – and he enjoyed working with her, but that did nothing about the fact that she was batshit crazy. 

"I was," Audrey confirmed, brushing the matter aside with a wave of her hand as if it were no more than an annoying fly.  She swirled her drink around before taking a dainty sip.  She must have brought the wine herself.  With the exception of beer, Boudica would never touch anything under forty percent. 

"You were what?" the woman in question asked, coming in just in time to overhear the last part. 

"On a date, darling," Audrey replied, and fished a pack of thin cigarettes out of her purse.  The smokes were more expensive than the ones Dismas could afford, which did not stop Audrey from making pleading eyes until, with a sigh, he tossed over his lighter.  "I'm sure you remember what that is like." 

"Barely," Boudica replied drily, and Dismas watched his two best friends exchange kisses in greeting. 

They couldn't be more different in appearance, the dame fatale and the rocker girl who repaired cars for a living.  Just like Audrey, Boudica was tall, but unlike her, she was also muscular and wore leathers and tattoos instead of silk and jewellery.  Boudica owned a garage where she ran a small business of repairing and selling cars, and in the evening when all the work was done, it was open to friends.  It was a good place if you wanted a drink or a chat, and she let Dismas borrow her tools whenever he needed to fix his bike. 

She had a boyfriend whom Dismas had not seen around today.  Secretly he was glad, because there was something about Tardif that had Dismas convinced that he was a serial killer. 

"How is my favourite grave robber?" Boudica asked, grabbing herself a bottle of beer that she deftly opened with a screwdriver, before plopping into the beat-up leather couch and putting her boots up on the table. 

"I'm an archaeologist!" Audrey protested in fake, albeit perfectly credible outrage.  She tilted back her head and released a plume of aromatic blue smoke towards the ceiling, her posture somehow even less ladylike than that of her friends. 

"What's the difference?" Boudica asked, taking a healthy swig right from the bottle. 

"The difference between archaeology and grave robbing," Dismas explained before Audrey could, "Is that they need to be stiff for more 'n a few centuries –then if you dig them up, it's considered scientific excavation." 

"So which one's your job and which one's your hobby, now?"  Boudica asked Audey with a grin. 

"Judging by what pays better... ," the blonde snorted, then suddenly shot upright, one hand disappearing inside her purse.  With a cry of victory she held up a small item so that it could catch the light of the naked bulb overhead.  "Look!" 

"What's that?"  Boudica asked, leaning closer to have a better look. 

Dismas recognized the trinket in Audrey's palm as one they had collected on their latest stint.  It was a ring in the form of a raven.  The corvid carried a crest that depicted a tower on a field of red and gold.  A fine piece of craftsmanship, but way too ornate and old-fashioned for his taste.  No wonder Audrey loved it though. She collected mementos of her midnight outings like saner people might collect stamps or cards of their favourite sports team. 

"Gotta do some research on who this crest originally belonged to," Audrey said, fondly looking at the ring before trying it on.  "Think they'd want it back?" she asked with a cheeky grin, holding out her hand for all to admire. 

"No," Dismas immediately threw in.  "It's ugly." 

Boudica laughed as Audrey pouted, pocketing her little treasure again.  "What did the Chief ever do to you anyway?" she wanted to know. 

"He took my money," Audrey hissed, her painted eyes narrowing dangerously. 

"Don't you mean your ex-husband's money?" Dismas asked.  Audrey's husband had been some business mogul, a CEO of one syndicate or another.  Like all of them he'd been running a crooked shop – unlike all of them he'd been caught.  Dismas had seen the bloke only once, and frankly he was glad he wasn't going to do so again.  Someone in prison had seen to that. 

"We had a deal!"  Audrey exclaimed.  "I was going to file for a fault divorce, which meant I was due most of our martial property and alimony!  Of course, no one told me that I would only get what was left _after_ the fiscal authorities confiscated every last penny."  

Which, as far as Dismas remembered, amounted to a quite sizable debt.  "Why did ya trust the police anyway?"  

"What else was I supposed to do?" Audrey fumed."  Did I know that pig was a mobster?  Of course I did!  Should I have gone to prison alongside him?" 

Dismas shrugged.  He did not blame Audrey,  but he also did not pity her.  After all, she had never lied about having married her ex only because of the money and social status it had given her.  "Well, better luck with the next one." 

"Oh, I don't want to remarry," Audrey declared proudly. 

"You sure?  Might be more money that way."  Out of the corner of his eyes, Dismas caught Boudica shaking her head and running a finger over her throat. 

Audrey smiled indulgently, but Dismas could see a spark in her eyes that confirmed he had overstepped some line.  "And when will we finally get to meet Mr. Paixdecoeur?" Audrey asked in a voice as sweet as nightshade essence. 

"Fuck off," Dismas grunted, regretting ever having told her his real name. 

"Speaking of lovers, future and past," Boudica made an attempt to steer their talk to safer waters, "Have you seen or heard from Louet?  He wanted to meet me, but didn't show up, and I haven't heard from him since.  I think he said he had something for you, Audrey."

"Oh?"  Audrey perked up, but Dismas wasn't paying attention to her. 

It wasn't like Louet not to come to a meeting.  He was one of the few people that could be really relied on.  Dismas shifted, a spark of worry gnawing at him.  He wasn't on the straight and narrow by any means, but he was a different man now than he had been during his time up North.  Back then, he had lived for the thrill of life, the rush of a raid.  But with the anger and vigour of youth spent, the lust for adventure abated, and recklessness gave way to caution. 

Experience had taught Dismas him that banditry was going to lead him to an early roadside grave, and age made him value stability over a quick profit, even if it was in the form of shitty day labour.  As far as he knew though, Louet was still involved with some of the local gangs, smuggling goods and information.  Unlike Dismas, he still liked what he did, but then Louet had always believed himself invincible.  It was part of what Dismas had loved so much about him. 

 

The conversation turned away from Audrey's love affairs and filthy lucre and to more everyday things.  Boudica suspected Bigby, an employee of hers who was responsible for the paperwork, and whom Dismas remembered as a morose gothic kid with lanky hair, to be smoking pot.  As long as he stayed away from any real drugs she was willing to close an eye – the type of customers that she had certainly didn't care either. 

Audrey in turn bitched about university life, about her colleagues, and how their funds for a project she had been applying for were being cut again.  "I swear," she said, "Either they give me tenure, a raise, or the Dean's gonna have to buy himself a better car insurance.  Again." 

A feral grin suddenly lit up Boudica's face.  "Well, Tardif and I were planning a trip to Fraehaven anyway." 

Dismas was well aware of where Boudica's main income came from.  A quick exchange of plates, some readjusting of the odometer and a paint job was all it took for a car to be ready to be sold to a new owner.  Up North, if you knew the right people and diligently paid your bribes, this could even guarantee you a living.  He himself had provided plenty of spare parts and even some of the vehicles for a share of the revenues. 

Audrey elbowed Dismas in the side, jostling him out of his thoughts.  "What do you think?  A few more cars and you can forever say goodbye to that dratty motel and find yourself a proper place to stay in." 

Dismas suppressed a flinch at Audrey's chosen topic instinctively hunching over.  "I'm not in the market."  

Audrey wasn't so easily dissuaded.  "It doesn't hurt to look, you know?  You might just find a place that you like." 

"If I find a place I like, I'll let you know," Dismas retorted, annoyed with her relentlessness.  Out of everything she could latch on to, why did she have to choose _this_?  Why not his clothing, or his hairstyle?  "Motel's gotta do for now.  And it's cheaper than paying rent." 

"It's _filthy_." 

"Would you look at that," Dismas sneered.  "The woman who digs up corpses for funzies is complaining about dirt.  Ever considered I might like it filthy?" 

He didn't.  He loathed it; everything from the cold lamps with missing shades, over the flaking tapestries to the cheap furniture marred with burn holes like pockmarks.  Dismas did not want to think about what manner of vermin lived in the cheerless grey carpets, where or who the stains on his bedding came from. 

Audrey raised a perfectly plucked brow as if she had read his mind on the matter, but she did not comment. 

Of course Dismas would be delighted to leave that shithole.  And when he felt bold and dared to dream big, he even imagined what it would be like to have a real home.  A nice, cozy place to call his own.  But the truth was that unlike miss professor, he did not have a prestigious, decently paying job. 

In fact, he did not have a regular job at all.  He drifted between working at gas station a couple miles out of the city, selling cigs and wank mags to passing truckers, to being a burglar and car thief.  Some nights Jubert would let him work behind the bar, or as a bouncer on others, but nothing he had ever done would make the best impression on a CV. 

No law-abiding person was going to employ him, not for a wage he could live from.  Dismas did not have citizenship, a passport or ID card.  It said something about a person when getting fake documents was less of a hassle than getting the real deal. 

He could probably get one made up North, but he wasn't going back up there.  Dismas had been with the outfits for too long to return to the North, and he couldn't go further South if he didn't want to tangle with the Holy Church of Light. 

So he squatted in-between, with no insurance, no prospect of pension, no access to healthcare – hell, even the card in his mobile was prepaid.  Dismas might be blessed with the constitution of a horse, but what when he got older?  He did not want to spend the rest of his life doing one miserable day job after another. 

Most of the time he managed not to think about the future (or his lack of one) at all.  He'd gotten very good at that. 

Motels at least made things a tick easier.  They never asked questions and they did not want to see identification papers, as long as you were good on cash. 

Audrey knew of his position.  It was a sore topic between them.  He knew she meant well.  It wasn't her intention to nag him about his way of living.  Hell, she would probably give him the money he'd need to get an apartment.  She had offered once, but he had refused and she had never asked again. 

There was a part inside Dismas that resisted the idea of accepting help.  He loathed owing people.  He had seen firsthand what a simple favour could lead to, and he had already done things for money he would regret to his dying day. 

"Well, it's been nice to see you but we'll better get going," Audrey said and stood, stretching. 

Dismas began to nod along, before the meaning of her words actually reached his brain.  

"Where are you going?" Boudica asked and rose too. 

Dismas would love to know as well.  He didn't have to wait long to find out. 

"Jubie's.  Dismas promised me a night out."

Dismas brows rose.  He had done no such thing, yet Audrey had lied without so much as batting an eyelash.   

 

"I wasn't aware you had planned on me taking you out for drinks," Dismas said once they had bid Boudica goodbye and had made their way outside. 

Audrey shook her head and raised a hand to shush him.  "I wanted to tell you first," she said, appearing to be in a hurry to get whatever it was that was bothering her out.  "Thought you might appreciate it."  She took a deep breath, then dropped the bomb.  "The police got Louet." 

"Fuckin' hell!"  Dismas cursed through clenched teeth, trying to ignore the ice-cold fear that suddenly gripped him.  "How do you know?" 

"Para told me." 

 _Para?_   Dismas was confused for a moment, before he realized that it had to be Audrey's lover.  "Your girlfriend?  She's in the police?" 

"Forensics," Audrey corrected, one hand grabbing the lapel of his jacket.  "You should leave, just for a few days." 

"No way." 

"If the police finds your whereabouts– " 

Audrey did not have to finish.  Dismas knew full well what awaited him, if law enforcement found him. 

"Louet's not going to talk," he stated with as much conviction as he could muster.  Perhaps it was naive of him to think so, after all, they weren't a team anymore.  It was every man for himself, but he still needed to believe it, for the sake of having something, anything, to believe in. 

"That's not what I've heard," Audrey said bitterly.  "Of course, if he snitches on _me_ , I'm going to have to kill him." 

Dismas was shaking his head, trying to get his thoughts into some semblance of order.  And then it hit him:  Audrey knew someone on the inside. 

"Why can't she get him out?" he enquired, drawing to a stop. 

"Who?"  Audrey blinked, confused. 

"Para," Dismas clarified, "your – something." 

"Oh, I don't know," Audrey sighed.  "Maybe because there is a fundamental difference between passing on snippets of knowledge when we're in private and breaking out a wanted criminal straight out of high security ward which – wait for it – is located right under the station." 

Dismas grunted and began to pace again. 

"Why don't you break him out yourself?" Audrey muttered.  "Aren't you the man with the magic touch when it comes to security?  Either they'll get you and you'll make things quicker for yourself, or they won't and you'll have what you wanted." 

"What's gotten into you tonight?" Dismas paused long enough to get a good look at his friend. 

"Oh, I don't know," Audrey snapped.  "Maybe I don't want to see all my friends land in jail!  You know," she began again, much calmer this time, "you can stay with me.  Just for a while and then we'll – "

"Look, I – I gotta go, yeah?" 

Occasionally, Dismas wondered if he was just too proud or too thick skulled.  Would it really be so bad to bite the bullet and move in to Audrey's loft?  He knew her well enough and she had more than enough space.  But he could not in good conscience stay when every step he took over her polished hardwood floor made him feel like he was leaving a stain. 

"Dismas –!" 

"Love ya too, hun," Dismas said, hurriedly kissing Audrey's cheek.  He heard her growl in frustration, saw her throw up her arms as if to say, 'I surrender'. 

His heart was thundering in his chest and his keys jingled in his hand.  Dismas had already broken every traffic regulation at least once, but never before in a single ride.  If they had gotten Louet... Audrey was right about one thing; he needed to move. 

Dismas accelerated, a litany that was half curses and half prayer falling from his lips. He drew to a sudden halt a few blocks away from his motel.  For a second he had the impression of having stepped into a discotheque.  There were no sirens, but blue lights flashed everywhere and the parking lot was taken up by squad cars and people in uniforms. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's late and my eyes are falling shut so any proof reading will have to happen tomorrow.


	3. Reynauld

"What a shithole." 

Reynauld put down the bag that contained their collected 'evidence' and followed Guyot's gaze.  He wasn't sure if his friend was referring to the condition of the room before or after they'd been through it, or to the motel as a whole.  Somehow it was impossible to imagine that it had ever seen better times.  It was a shabby place, where electric outings were the norm, and where the rooms were in worse shape than most of the prison cells he had seen.   

Through the grimy windows and broken shutters only a little light managed to find its way to illuminate the sad pile that were their meagre findings. 

On the upside, the prosecution had sanctioned the raid almost as soon as they could pinpoint a location.  On the downside, it was only a partial success.  They had some of Dismas' belongings now, but they did not have the man himself.  The Chief had wanted a bust, and now all they had to show for it was a duffel bag full of clothes and a few toiletries. 

"What do we have here?" Despite her being hidden behind the sofa, there was no mistaking the excitement in Lin's voice.  She laughed, then held up a flat object, waving it around triumphantly. 

"What's that?"  Guyot asked, his eyes narrowing in an attempt to make out what it was their colleague had found. 

"A notebook." Linesi climbed back to her feet with a huge grin. 

"Good work!" Reynauld praised with a smile of his own.  This had to be the best find yet.  Trust the sniper to find something good.  "Is that everything?" 

"Yes," Lin confirmed.  "I was hoping to find a data stick too, or a CD, but no.  Only the laptop, and of course it would be hidden in the last place left," she huffed.  "So what do we do now?" 

So far they had checked under the rug for hidey holes, they'd moved all the furnishings to check the spaces behind them; and finally they had taken apart some of the furniture.  There wasn't an inch left that had not had at least two police officers check it for something that might help their case. 

"Bag it," Reynauld decided with a nod at the notebook, "And let's wrap this up." 

"On it," Lin answered.  "I'll tell the others we're all done."  She pulled out her radio and disappeared through the doorway.  Reynauld nodded absent-mindedly, taking one last look at the room.  There was no telling that there had been a squad digging through it.  Everything was back in its place, and the room looked exactly as it had when they had arrived – minus any trace of its former occupant. 

"Think he'll come back?" Guyot asked quietly. 

"He would be stupid if he did," Reynauld responded, not at all alarmed by Guyot's mind-reading abilities.  After being friends for as many years as they had been, he had learned to live with Guyot's occasional bouts of clairvoyance.  "And we have been told he's anything but." 

There was no point in waiting around.  Reynauld closed the door, and made for the staircase.  They would discreetly station a few police officers here, but Dismas had proven himself to be good enough at evading the authorities that there was not much hope of him returning to this place after their less-than-subtle approach. 

"I guess the Chief makes mistakes too," Guyot dared to speak up when they were halfway down to the lobby. 

"It wouldn't have hurt him to listen to me," Reynauld growled.  He refrained from hitting the rail, because it might actually come undone and kill someone on the ground floor.  Which would mean even more work for him.  "We could have had Paixdecoeur behind bars by now!  Why put me in charge if he was going to- ," he paused and made a vague motion in the air with his hand, "fuck it all up anyway."  Reynauld's shoulders slumped, most of the anger gone now. 

He had opposed the raid from the start.  If he'd had a choice, Reynauld would have dealt with the matter the exact same way they did most undercover work.  Take the time to prepare and to verify their target was here.  And then strike before they guy knew what hit him. 

"Hey," Guyot said, giving Reynauld's shoulder a pat.  "We'll get him.  He can't run forever." 

Unless he had another hideout somewhere.  The one thing they had not found was money.  That meant that Dismas was not only smart enough not to trust the cleaning staff, it also meant he may have prepared for this very case.  If he packed up and left the country, they had no chance of picking up the trail. 

"Meanwhile," Guyot lifted the bag that contained the notebook Lin had found, "What do you think we'll find?" he asked with a grin and a waggle of his eyebrows. 

"I'll let you find out," Reynauld sighed.  

 

Back at the station, Dismas' clothing was searched for weapons or illegal substances, of which neither was found.  It was merely old and worn, but not making him guilty of any crime other than a bad sense of fashion.  Forensics identified Dismas' toiletries as soap and toothpaste – the latter being Wintry Spearmint by Dentacare, as one of Paracelsus' lab assistants was happy to inform Reynauld before asking if he wanted a spit sample (they'd already ran an unauthorized DNA test for reasons unbeknownst to any mortal). 

Reynauld thanked him, declined the kind offer, and then backed out of the office without dropping eye contact until he was safe behind the doorsill. 

From there on it was back to his office via a detour by the coffee machine, and then on to where Guyot was sitting bent over the notebook.  An old, scratched animal rights sticker that Reynauld had not noticed before indicated that the computer may not always have belonged to Dismas. 

"What have you found so far?" he asked, leaning against the desk. 

Guyot cast him a dark look, and Reynauld found his spirits lifting marginally.  There was nothing quite as good at improving one's mood as putting someone else in a bad one.

"A lot of steamy guy on guy action," Guyot replied, "and I have to look through every goddamn file, just in case there's something hidden there." 

Reynauld hummed and took a sip of his coffee.  "Have fun." 

"Ain't that more up _your_ alley?" Guyot snapped, so Reynauld flipped him off, and left him to his work.  

 

It was a couple of hours later when Reynauld decided to make another round to see what progress had been made.  The sun was rising, streaking the black sky with ribbons of orange and pink, but except for those who had been on the raid or worked the night shift the bureau was still mostly deserted. 

That excluded forensics and IT of course, but the current belief was those guys never slept anyway. 

Lin, Ros and Stanley handed in their reports, and this time, instead of giving him attitude, Guyot looked at Reynauld with the woeful eyes of a suffering puppy.  So Reynauld took pity and grabbed an empty seat, deciding to keep his friend some company. 

"Anything new?" 

"Who even names their porn folder 'PORN'?" Guyot complained, but apparently he had found nothing incriminating. 

Reynauld shrugged and looked at the screen where two guys were having a quick tumble in the shower.  And by quick he meant _quick_ , because the video was playing at triple speed, which made it rather amusing to watch.  

Guyot told him about his plans to move together with Lucy, his girlfriend of two years, and Reynauld listened, making the appropriate noises at the appropriate time, and stole a discreet look at the screen every now and then. 

Secretly – because he would die if that thought was ever spoken aloud – he had to admit that Dismas didn't have the worst taste in erotica.  At least all the couples seemed to be genuinely enjoying what they were doing. 

Eventually, Guyot sighed and rubbed his temples, and then hit the pause button.  He snorted at the frozen image of one of the actor's private area and slapped the laptop shut. 

Reynauld just hoped that sometime before he had made sure that it was not password protected, or they'd have to take it to IT. 

They decided to grab a coffee, even though it was a terrible idea because night shift was almost over, and Reynauld rather looked forward to going home and falling into bed face-first. 

As it turned out, they were not the first ones to arrive at the kitchen. 

"Hey, Lin," Guyot said, waiting until she ha d refilled the coffee machine before brewing a cup for Reynauld and for himself.  "What's up, Para?"

Paracelsus worked in forensics, and was officially forbidden to come within thirty feet of the kitchen without a police officer accompanying her.  There had been one too many cases of someone taking a spontaneous nap after having a cup of coffee, and it had taken the entire PD and a restraint order to convince her to keep her experiments to the inmates. 

The doctor with her white lab coat always looked a bit out of place.  She had a slight hunch and large eyes, amplified by her glasses which gave her the appearance of a giant bird. 

Reynauld was happy to sit down on the worn but comfy couch and to sip his coffee.  It tasted burned.  He waved off Para's offer of yellow and blue pills ("harmless stimulants, I swear!") and zoned out, letting Guyot and Lin do most of the talking. 

"Hey doc, that girlfriend of yours isn't she – " Lin asked suddenly, and Reynauld realized he had long since stopped following the conversation. 

"A critically acclaimed archaeology professor?" Para interrupted, wringing her hands.  "Yes!  Yes, she is." 

"Is that a mugshot?"  Guyot asked, stretching to see something Paracelsus was holding, and while doing so he jostled Reynauld, who only narrowly avoided spilling his coffee into his lap.  It had grown cold, and he put the practically full mug away. 

"No!" Para squealed, pulling away her precious photograph from curious hands and prying eyes.  "It's a driver's licence picture." 

"Okay," Guyot laughed.  "Easy there, doc.  Ain't my business whom you date." 

"What time is it?" Lin yawned. 

"Two minutes past five," Para answered, after checking a silver wristwatch.  Reynauld had never seen her wear one before, but then maybe it had been hidden by the floppy lab coat. 

"One more hour," Guyot moaned.  "Someone shoot me please.  No thanks, Para." 

"It's just something to induce a harmless coma-like state that is perfectly revertible with a shot of –," Paracelsus broke off as no one was listening to her anyway and pocketed the tiny and innocent-looking pink pill with obvious disappointment. 

Most the hour passed in a stupor that ended abruptly when they received a paged message from downstairs that the first officers of the day shift had arrived, Mallory amongst them.  That gave them roughly a minute and a half to clear out the area, remove the evidence of any coffee breaks, and to return to their desks. 

Guyot fell into his chair with a groan, and opened Dismas' notebook with an expression of intense pain upon his face.  It had just booted, when–

"Special agent Reynauld," A voice from behind them called out.  Reynauld and Guyot both turned to see Mallory approach – at least until she stopped dead in her tracks.  "... is that a _penis_!?" Mallory's voice rose high enough that even Ros and Marci stuck their heads out of their cubicles, a curious look on their faces. 

"It's part of the investigation," Reynauld managed to force out, while next to him Guyot turned a shade that made his freckles indistinguishable from his skin.  At least the sound was off. 

Mallory shook her head, and left, muttering something under her breath. 

"Sometimes I hate my life," Guyot mumbled.  He still looked like he wanted to melt into the floor.  Reynauld snorted and leaned back, kicking up his feet to rest on the corner of the desk.  He checked the watch.  Twenty more minutes. 

But then all thoughts of going home were driven from his mind when next to him Guyot shot upright. 

"I found something!" Guyot shouted and tapped the screen.  "There's a text file in here, I knew it!" 

Reynauld too sat more upright, feeling awake all of a sudden.  Would they really find something?  Contacts, numbers, maybe a location?  Something to link Paixdecoeur to the Grave Robber, or something to prove he had worked for the Wolf?  Information on El Abuelo, even? 

The file took an insultingly long amount of time to load.  Guyot was drumming his fingers on the table, but stopped when a white document opened.  Black on white, in a neat cursive script, there appeared four lines of text:  

 

_Roses are red,_

_Violets are blue,_

_Feds are pigs–_

_Joke's on you._

 

Reynauld had one look at Guyot's flabbergast face, and he managed to hold on to his composure for all of three seconds before he burst out laughing. 

"Charming," Guyot said flatly and threw a pen at Reynauld that harmlessly bounced off his chest.  "This isn't funny, you know?"  But, as if to belie his words, he too was cracking up.  "What an arsehole," he hiccupped, "what a complete and utter dickbiscuit." 

"Do you want to report your findings to the Chief?" Reynauld asked once the first fit had subsided, triggering another salve of laughter.  

"You do realize we have zero proof of... anything," Guyot asked a moment later, putting a dampener on their newfound good mood. 

"But we do know Paixdecoeur is a wanted man in the North," Reynauld reasoned.  "Even if we don't find anything else, there are arrest warrants for him in five City-States, and that's only the ones we know about because they are cooperating with us." 

"Then this was utterly pointless anyway," Guyot decided, stood up and stretched.  He worked the kinks out of his back, muttering, "I'm sending this in.  Maybe there's hidden files or what the fuck ever.  I hope they're full of dicks too." 

Reynauld had to grin at the temper tantrum.  "They're IT, they've seen weirder shit." 

Guyot _hmphed_.  His finger was already hovering over the notebook's on-off button, when the machine made a plopping sound and a little blinking window alerted them they had just received a new message. 

Guyot looked at Reynauld with his best 'what did I just do?' face. 

Reynauld raised a brow.  "Aren't you going to check that?" 

"Looks like a certain 'Sweetheart' has cancelled his or her appointment with our guy," Guyot said a moment later and turned the laptop so that Reynauld could see for himself. 

 

_Hey... so something came up and I'm afraid I can't make it to Jubie's tonight.  Pls don't be mad?_

_Love ya, xoxo_

"Tonight," Reynauld said, giving Guyot a pointed look. 

"Come on, you don't mean to – " his friend began, then shook his head.  "Of course you do.  Does 'Jubie's' even ring a bell?" 

"Yeah," Reynauld replied, surprising himself and Guyot, both.  He shrugged, but the name _did_ sound familiar.  "Open the chat log," he commanded.

Guyot pulled up the log for the past couple of years and once it had loaded, he scrolled up a bit.  They found a blurry but recent picture that looked like it had been taken on a phone, by a very drunk person.  Despite its poor quality, it was unmistakably their guy in the parking lot of what Reynauld guessed to be a bar.  Unfortunately, the neon lights in the back were too unfocused to make out what they said. 

Reynauld suddenly felt wide awake.  "Go through everything," he instructed his friend, tapping the laptop with his index finger.  "I will tell the others to get searching, now." 

It might have been by accident, but they were on to something.  He could feel it. 

"Everything?" Guyot repeated with audible reluctance. 

Reynauld nodded, and left him to gather the rest of the team for a briefing.  A while later Guyot found him in his office, pacing. 

"Rey.  Marci's got something.  _Jubert's Taphouse_." 

Of course there was a chance that it wasn't the right place, or that the message was a code for something else, but it was their only solid lead.  They had to follow it. 

"What about the notebook? Reynauld wanted to know, recalling that his friend had a task to perform. 

"I gave it to Ros," Guyot replied, waving the matter away.

"Excellent."  Reynauld grabbed the keys to his locker out of his desk drawer.  "Let's go." 

"You want to go there?"  Guyot asked.  "Now?"  He looked at the clock.  "It's seven.  My shift's been over for an hour." 

Reynauld gave him a pat on the back, which they both agreed was better than a boot in the arse, and they jogged downstairs to change into their normal day clothes.  This morning's trouble meant that they did not have to borrow an unmarked car, they could just take Reynauld's. 

Jubert's taphouse was not easy to find.  It was a squat one-story pub sitting between much larger and more modern buildings.  Fifth Square was just one street in the labyrinth that was the old industrial district.  Except for some breweries and the one or other atelier most of the factories had shut down.  Now expensive loft apartments could be encountered right next to brick and glass warehouses which had been turned into clubs. 

Barques were dropping people off at the nearby pier, and restaurants were popping up left and right.  Everywhere advertisements reminded you that the huge empty halls could be rented for a party. 

Amidst all that, Jubert's taphouse seemed to be stuck in the last century – if one could look past the electric lighting.  Reynauld looked over at the passenger seat, where Guyot was watching the establishment with his chin propped up in his hand. 

"Shall we?" 

Behind the counter, a bored looking woman with too much eye makeup barely made the effort of lifting her painted eyelids when they entered. 

"Where's the – ?"  Reynauld did not get any further before she pointed down the corridor.  He nodded and followed in the direction her neon orange nail pointed.  The pretext of having to use the restroom gave him the opportunity to get somewhat familiar with the layout of the bar.  The kitchen area was closed off, as was a back entrance into a high-walled courtyard.  If he had to guess, Reynauld would say it hid an illegal fighting ring.  But that wasn't why they were here. 

He only had a few minutes before he had to make his way back.  The waitress was nowhere to be seen, and Guyot was waiting for him back at the car.  He remembered why the name of the bar was familiar.  Not a year ago they had taken down a drug ring just two streets further. 

"Here," Guyot handed Reynauld the pack of cigs he had apparently just purchased and effectively ripped him out of his thoughts. 

Reynauld stared at the small package that landed in his lap.  "I quit." 

"Yeah, well."  Guyot shrugged.  "I never started, so keep them."  A moment of silence, then, "You're thinking." 

"Hm?" 

"You got your thinkin' face on," Guyot remarked snickered, and then added, "and nothing good's ever come of that."

"Thanks," Reynauld replied drily, but decided to share his thoughts with his best friend and partner.  "You won't like it," he decided.  

"The last time you said that we were in a stolen tank in Tipolis." 

"Heh."  Reynauld had to chuckle.  He might grow old and forget where he lived or what his name was, but he knew Guyot would never let him forget that.  "It wasn't so bad." 

"They were firing mortars at us!"  Guyot recalled. 

"Look," Reynauld interrupted the tirade that he knew was coming.  "We don't know much about Paixdecoeur, but we've seen enough to be sure of one thing: he likes men, and uniforms.  And... I still got some of my old army stuff." 

"You're right," Guyot replied.  "I don't like this."  A pause, then, "Has it occurred to you that he might have downloaded this stuff just to mess with us?  That poem was no coincidence." 

"No, I am utterly naive and it's never crossed my mind," Reynauld retorted.  He thought it was highly unlikely their guy had gone through all the bother of actually picking thematically matching videos just to potentially prank some law enforcement officer. 

"But... why?" Guyot asked.  "Why not just... stick to the plan?" 

"We don't have a plan," Reynauld reminded him. 

"If that Dismas guy is there, we can arrest him straightaway," Guyot suggested. 

"I don't want to find out how many of those patrons own illegal weapons," Reynauld countered, "Do you?" 

He knew by the defeated sigh that he had just won the argument.  "If I can get him out without raising suspicion, I will do that.  If it doesn't work, we do it the hard way." 

"So, what?  You just walk up to the guy and chat him up?" 

Reynauld shrugged.  "That's usually how it goes, yeah." 

"Fine!"  Guyot threw up his arms in surrender.  "Just tell me this; how do you plan to convince the Chief?" 

"I... don't," Reynauld answered after a moment's consideration.  "I'll ask Mallory"

"Good fucking luck." 

"Thank you," Reynauld said.  And just because it seemed necessary to point it out, "You're coming with me." 

Guyot's contribution to that conversation that happened twenty minutes later, was to furiously wave his arms every time Reynauld had said 'we', whilst pointing his thumb at Reynauld, who could actually see his every move out of the corner of his eyes. 

"Did I understand you correctly," Mallory clarified after Reynauld had finished describing their plan.  "That you are asking me for permission to _seduce_ your target?" 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to finish this over Christmas, and then New Year's... and there was just no time. Hope you enjoyed the somewhat late chapter nonetheless. The next one sure will be interesting^^


	4. Reynauld

"How do I look?"  

Guyot spun the chair he was lounging in around so he could give his friend a once-over.  "I'd do you," he then replied with an easy grin. 

Reynauld snorted, amused rather than flattered.  "Don't let Lucy hear you." 

He cast one last glance in the mirror, then turned away with a defeated sigh.  He looked good wearing full body armour and an AR, not dressed up in anything fancy.  So in the end he had opted for combat boots (practicality before style!), cargo pants and an olive green shirt with his old tags underneath. 

Not exactly the kind of attire you would usually pick for a date, but then Reynauld had not chosen a job where he had to wear uniform every day because he was good at anything fashion related.  At least the clothes were clean and free of any patches.  That, and he had showered and applied some cologne that he had accidentally dug up after having forgotten he owned it in first place.  It would have to do. 

Now to get his target's attention, chat him up, and get him to agree to leave the bar without him becoming suspicious.  Think of a distraction and make the arrest without being shot or stabbed. 

Easy. 

Guyot quickly picked up something wasn't right.   

"You sure about this?" he asked cautiously, like testing thin ice. 

"Do you have a better idea?" Reynauld replied instead of answering the actual question. 

"No," Guyot admitted, "but this strikes me as a really, _really_ bad one," he pointed out. 

"Eh, can't be worse than my last date, right?" Reynauld tossed over his shoulder with a grin.  Because really, it couldn't be.  Even _if_ he got stabbed. 

Guyot's eyebrows shot up.  "The teacher?" 

"Yeah," Reynauld confirmed as he stuffed his pockets with his wallet, car keys and, after hesitating briefly, a lighter and the package of cigs Guyot had given him.  At least it would give him something to fidget with. 

Guyot had to keep poking.  "I thought you had a good time." 

"The food and drinks were good," Reynauld said.  "But I could have just as well pulled a sock over my left hand and it would have made for better conversation." 

Guyot winced.  "Ouch.  Well, I guess the moral's don't let your ex-wife talk you into a date with one of her colleagues," he said, which earned him a wild look from Reynauld. 

"You putting it like that somehow makes it even worse."  Mostly because it made him realize how long it had been since he'd been on a date out of his own volition, with a person that he had genuine interest in. 

How long it'd been since he'd had _more_ , and now he was rusty and his first try was against a high profile target whose tally of crimes included murder, based on his erotic preferences that may or may not have been a prank. 

Reality checks sure were a bitch. 

"Want me to wire you up?" Guyot asked. 

"No."  Reynauld shook his head.  "That'd give me away, if – ," 

"If you get to the hands-on part?" Guyot supplied and for some unfathomable reason he was flipping between being concerned in one moment and mischievously amused in the other. 

"You're an arse, you know that?" Reynauld informed him.  Just in case he didn't' already know that. 

"What?" Guyot tried and failed to look innocent.  "My best friend is going on a date.  I just wanna make sure he's gonna have a good time."  He lifted the printout of Dismas' picture so it was right beside Reynauld's face.  "I think you'll make a cute couple." 

"Couple?" A new voice asked, interrupting anything Reynauld might have said in retaliation.  It belonged to none other than Paracelsus.   "Is that your boyfriend?" the doctor asked, owlishly blinking at the picture that was still in Guyot's hands. 

Were her pupils unusually dilated?  It was hard to tell. 

"No, Para," Reynauld sighed.  "He is the criminal we're trying to get." 

"Oh."  She sounded disappointed, almost.  "Well, he's hot." 

Guyot had begun to snicker at the boyfriend comment, but the last bit had him giggle like a maniac as he slid under the desk, like he had suddenly liquefied.  Since he was utterly useless like this, it fell to Reynauld to deal with the situation. 

"Thanks for dropping by, Para, now why are you here?" 

Instead of answering, she dropped a plastic bag with two small pills inside in his palm.  "Here." 

"What is that?"  Guyot asked from his place on the floor.

"Flunitrazepam," was the doctor's prompt answer.

"What is that in non scientific terms?" Reynauld wanted to know. 

"Rohypnol." 

"A date rape drug?" Reynauld asked, looking at the small bag of pills she had given him. 

Paracelsus shrugged and then gave Reynauld a thumbs up and a smile that was probably meant to be encouraging before leaving the office as suddenly as she had come. 

"Thanks," Reynauld said after her, feeling anything but thankful.  Mostly, he was weirded out.  Also, a bit scared. 

"The fuck is wrong with that woman?"  Guyot too was looking in the direction of the door through which Paracelsus had just disappeared. 

"Many things," Reynauld stated wearily.  "If you're still in gelatinous form, I'll have you know I'm leaving now." 

After a moment's consideration, he pocketed the drug.  It went well with the handcuffs that were in one of his pockets. 

Shit, he really was terrible at this, wasn't he? 

"Coming!" Guyot jumped up, brushed himself down, and followed Reynauld.  "You don't really have a very seductive walk," he observed a couple of steps into the corridor. 

"What?" 

"Your hips don't sway.   You're all stiff, Rey.  You look like you wanna punch somethin' or someone.  At this rate, you'll scare him away." 

Reynauld scowled. 

"No, not like that," Guyot groaned with a roll of his eyes.  "Go for a _sexy_ look!" 

"Fuck off." Reynauld huffed because he was too damn close to cracking a smile. 

"Light, you're hopeless," Guyot said and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his breast pocket.  "Do you want my list of pick-up lines?  I put it together just for you." 

"Thank you, but no," Reynauld declined the offered gift.  "Now please go away, get the rest of the team, and don't come until I call in!" 

"Fine," Guyot pouted, pocketing his list again.  "Do you know there's a betting pool?"

"What?"  Reynauld stopped dead in his tracks.  "There's a pool?  What's the bet?  Hey, what – "

But Guyot just continued past him and, once out of sight, hollered 'Good Luck!'

Sometimes Reynauld hated his friends almost as much as he loved them. 

 

The drive to Jubert's taphouse passed quicker than Reynauld would have liked.  He did not spot any tail, which meant that the team that was following him was doing a good job.  They would wait nearby in case he needed backup.  But other than that, he was on his own.  

Reynauld hated undercover work.  He also wasn't enough of a duplicitous bastard to be any good at it.  

He pulled into the parking lot that was half full despite the relatively early hour, and killed the engine.  The bar looked less out of place in the dark than it had during daytime.  Unlike the neon blue signs of the modern clubs he had driven past, warm yellow light spilled invitingly from its windows.  Reynauld took a couple of deep breaths to steady his nerves, just like he'd been told in the army. 

Around him everything was calm until a rambunctious bout of laughter disrupted the quiet and a group of tipsy people stumbled out of the entrance and made their way hopefully to a taxi and not one of the cars.  Tonight though, that was none of his business. 

Reynauld realized he was stalling. 

He hurried to get out of the car, and then briskly crossed the parking lot at a jog.  He'd been to war, he shouldn't be panicking about the prospect of chatting up a guy in a bar and having a drink or two.  He had no favourite sports team that could lose a mach, and wasn't even allergic to peanuts.  Everything was going to be just fine. 

People did this all the time, although most probably did not carry handcuffs and a knockout drug with them. 

Reynauld pulled the door open and was immediately hit by a wall of noise and heat.  Human smells assaulted his nose, a tang of sweat and beer with an undertone of fried foods and smoke.  Jubert's was a pub like many others, and while it wasn't crammed, it sure was crowded.  Reynauld had to fight down a rising feeling of despair – how was he supposed to find their guy amongst all these people, and without raising suspicion to boot? 

"'Scuse me," a rough male voice said from behind, and Reynauld stepped aside out of habit, realizing he had been standing rooted to the floor and blocking the doorway. 

He almost did a double take when he pulled his eyes off the interior of the bar and saw who was trying to push past him.  He even had a name he could put to the face. 

_Dismas._

There was a moment when their eyes met, and Reynauld could feel his heartbeat quicken.  The rush of blood was in his ears as his target passed him by, scarcely an arm's length away.  For a split second he considered grabbing him then and there.  But that was not the plan. 

He forced himself to look away and to move on towards the bar, not missing how Dismas actually stopped and turned to look after him. 

He hadn't just given himself away, had he?  If he blew it now, their entire mission was screwed.  Despite the doubts assaulting him, Reynauld decided to take a free seat at the bar, and ordered himself a drink. 

To his great relief, Dismas sat down a couple of tables further away.  In his pocket, Reynauld's phone vibrated, providing a short but welcome distraction  He had one message, and it was from Guyot. 

_How you doin?_

There was a pdf file attached to it, and when Reynauld made the mistake of opening it, he was graced with a selection of pick-up lines, one worse than the other.  Reynauld had a laugh as he scrolled through them, before he typed his answer:

_Good.  He's here.  Stand by._

Another quick glance showed him Dismas talking to the barman and owner, Jubert.  The man was easily recognizable by his size and his moustache.  With the general hubbub, Reynauld would have to be much closer to be able to listen in on their conversation, but after a while Dismas threw his head back and laughed.  He caught Reynauld's eye, put his feet up on an empty chair, and winked. 

Reynauld felt the heat rise to his cheeks.  Wasn't he too old to feel flustered by some casual flirtation?  He wasn't twenty anymore – not that he would ever have dared to go to a place like this back then. 

Dismas certainly looked way too smug with the reaction he'd gotten.  His posture was almost provocatively careless, and a smirk played around his mouth.  Either he was clueless, or Reynauld was now the one being led on. 

There was only one way to find out. 

And thus began the dance to which Reynauld knew the rhythm but not all the steps.  It was a subtle game of patience: which one of them would make the first move? 

The bar did not strike Reynauld as a place where one could show their interest too clearly, and he tried to think of ways to approach the other man, all the while keeping one eye on the clock behind the bar.  He did not want to rush, and be seen too desperate or easy, but neither did he want Dismas to get bored and decide he had better chances elsewhere. 

All of this would be much easier if he did not have Guyot's voice on repeat telling him to make a sexy face.  And if there weren't three strangers coming up behind Dismas in a way that spelled nothing good. 

Reynauld had no idea who these guys were, or what was being said, but one did not have to be very skilled at reading body language to know that they were looking for a fight.  And, judging by Dismas' manner, they had just successfully found one willing participant. 

The crowd was stirring, sensing something was up.  Like hounds that had smelled blood they drew closer, and a loose circle began to form.  Reynauld sat up straighter to better see over the many heads.  Dismas had gotten to his feet too.  A low chant of 'fight' ebbed and swelled, before it was effectively silenced by the barman.  He seemed disinclined to do anything about the confrontation though, and Reynauld felt the first spike of worry. 

Should he intervene? 

Three against one were bad odds, but the main aggressor was quickly identified.  He had to be the leader of the group, the other two handing back – for now. 

Reynauld was watching attentively and ready to jump into action if the situation got too ugly, but Dismas managed to turn the tables within the blink of an eye all on his own.  A flash of movement, a scream cut off abruptly and his adversary had his head knocked against the sturdy wooden table, dropping unconscious. 

His friends quickly backed off, and Dismas –

Dismas appeared to be ready for another round. 

No one seemed fazed by the casual display of violence.  Reynauld even heard a few cheers, and some curses, but most patrons lost interest as quickly as the fight was over, leaving Jubert to deal with the aftermath. 

The thugs were shown the way to the door; Dismas got to stay.  He downed his drink with what could only be called purpose, rose, and...

... fuck.

He was coming straight over.  Reynauld watched the small figure in his glass grow larger, and braced for whatever was to come.  Shit, he was in for a fight, wasn't he?

Dismas had fought low and dirty, confirming that he wasn't just some punk, but someone around whom Reynauld needed to keep his defences up.

"Hey there, hot stuff." 

Light, help him.  It was exactly the greasy kind of come-on Reynauld would have expected from a deadbeat like Dismas.  And, arguably, worse than a punch in the face. 

Reynauld turned, and to give him credit, Dismas did not so much as bat an eyelash at the scrutiny he received.  Reynauld had seen how the other man's hand had gone to his back pocket, and it was his fair guess that was where he kept a knife.  But there might be more, maybe even a gun.  It was hard to tell with the kind of clothing Dismas wore.  He realized he'd been staring wordlessly at the other man for a couple of seconds. 

_Now or never._

"Reynauld," Reynauld said, opting for his real name because things would get terribly awkward if he failed to react to an alias. 

"Dismas," Dismas said, and Reynauld congratulated himself on not bursting out with a 'I know.'  The other guy grinned, and Reynauld too forced his facial muscles into a prolonged spasm. 

Thankfully the barman passed by just then, saving him the embarrassment of looking like he was having a stroke.  "Two beer." 

Or was that _beers_? 

Fuck, he actually couldn't language anymore.  And he was expected to hold a conversation!? 

Dismas chuckled.  Maybe he knew the answer, or something else was going on.  Either way, he slid into the seat next to Reynauld, resting one elbow on the bar and turning sideways, towards Reynauld.  "I haven't seen you around here before." 

"No, I, uh...," Reynauld scratched the back of his neck.  He really should have thought of a good story, not sure what madness had prompted him to make it all up on the spot.  "I haven't been here before."  At least the orange-clawed waitress wasn't here to call him out on his lie.

Dismas' eyes were on the chain that disappeared under his shirt.  "Enjoying some downtime?" he guessed. 

"Leave, yes," Reynauld corrected and instantly wondered if he should have done that.  He didn't want to come off as condescending.  Reynauld discarded the idea of asking if it was that obvious – of course it was, he'd made it so.  So instead he said, "I heard the beer's good," and took a sip of what was left of his.  It was lukewarm.  Reynauld suppressed a cough and decided to leave the dregs be. 

He should probably return the interest. 

"And you?" 

_There, Reynauld, that wasn't so hard._

"Oh, I used to come here a lot," Dismas drawled.  "Now it's just whenever I'm passing though." 

"Business?" Reynauld ventured, trying to make it sound as harmless as possible.  He knew what kind of business the other man was involved in, after all.  But he was curious what the answer was going to be. 

"You could say that," Dismas replied, and Reynauld  had to give him points for evasiveness. 

And, just because he could, he asked, "So what do you do?" 

Dismas' head tilted like a bird's.  "I'm a mechanic," he said, and most people probably wouldn't even notice the brief pause.  "Sometimes I help out a friend with a garage.  Vintage stuff." 

"You like cars?"  _Wow, very mature.  You just managed to sound like Thio._ Reynauld tried not to wince at the small voice in his head, but Dismas' eyes lit up. 

"And bikes," Dismas added, and the smile he shot Reynauld had to be the most genuine one he had displayed this evening.  "Yeah, I like repairing them, making 'em work again, you know?  Or putting somethin' together, from scrap.  'S how I got my bike.  Couldn't afford a new one, so I just got the newest parts from a bunch of old ones, and... ," he flushed slightly, although with his complexion and the dim light it barely showed.  "Don't wanna bore ya with details," he mumbled. 

"Not at all," Reynauld assured him, glad their drinks arrived to break up the awkward moment.  But the truth was, that for a second he hadn't seen a target as he had thought of Dismas until now, but a man talking about a hobby he loved.  And it made a change, in both how Dismas spoke, and how he comported himself. 

Reynauld thought, that for a brief moment he had seen a face the man did not show everybody.  There certainly was no mention of it anywhere in his files. 

"Really?" Dismas asked, sounding somewhere between hopeful and slightly abashed.  Whatever it was, he caught himself quickly, returning to his usual drawl.  "You know, I thought of joining the army once, just to drive one of the big rides." 

"Like a humvee?" Reynauld asked, grasping at the topic like a drowning man would a lifeline. 

"No," Dismas replied with a shake of his head and a grin.  "The _really_ big ones." 

"A tank," Reynauld stated.  Right, he could do this.  "You know," he began, "we once had to steal one."  

"Really?"  Dismas didn't sound like he believed one word of it.  "That must be quite a story, soldier." 

It was.  And so Reynauld shared a slightly embellished version of what had happened in Tipolis with Dismas. 

 

"... and then," Reynauld said between bouts of laughter that Dismas joined in liberally, "They fired a mortar at us.  Completely useless against APCs, you see, but I guess it was the only thing they had." 

Dismas' chuckle was stifled as he took a last pull on his beer.  "I'd say yer shittin' me, but it seems too crazy to be made up." 

"All true," Reynauld assured him, holding up his fore and middle finger.  "Scout's honour." 

The corner of Dismas' mouth twitched upwards, a dimple appearing in his cheek.  A hardened criminal shouldn't have dimples.  Until now, Dismas had made a good job of looking the part; he had a gaunt, weather-beaten face and crow's feet at the corners of his eyes, and dark circles underneath them– but after everything they had put him through lately, it was no wonder if he slept poorly.  His nose must have been broken on more than one occasion, and he could use a shave.  The short, salt-and-pepper bristle made the thin scars across his right cheek and jaw all the more pronounced.  At least one of them looked like it had been caused by a knife.  The others, Reynauld could only guess. 

But despite bearing the marks of a tough life, Dismas was quick with a joke or a smile, and his black eyes sparkled with amusement. 

Reynauld shook off his thoughts in time to catch the next question. 

"You were a boy scout?"

"For an embarrassingly long time," Reynauld confirmed, "It was a thing around where I grew up." 

"What's it like, down South?" Dismas asked softly. 

"Hot," Reynauld replied, "and dusty, and miserable." 

Dismas snorted, sensing that he wasn't in a mood to talk about his childhood home.  They spoke of other things instead.  The two beers Reynauld had ordered became two more, before they moved on to harder liquor. 

Sometime in the middle of conversation, Dismas shifted on his barstool, and his knee knocked against Reynauld's.  He didn't draw away though, and Reynauld pressed back lightly enough that Dismas could not mistake it for an attempt to shove him away. 

The night was still young, but Reynauld was buzzing, pleasantly so.  What advantage he had in body mass over the other man, Dismas probably made up for in practice.  If the alcohol was affecting him, he wasn't showing it. 

Reynauld knew he wasn't being himself.  But this was nice.  The closeness.  Having somebody else's interest, talking about and laughing at inconsequential things. 

The glass in his hand was cool and dripping with condensation, and against his side, Dismas was warm.  It made for a pleasant contrast, and it made him aware of something else – something he had not experienced during his recent dates.  It was as terrifying as it was exhilarating.  And, he wanted more. 

"So how come you're here on yer own?" 

"Hmm?"  Reynauld hummed, caught by surprise by the question.  "But I'm not, am I?" he asked.  It barely required any effort to turn over his hand, the one that rested on the counter right next to Dismas' - but it took a lot of courage to trace his thumb from Dismas' first knuckle to the tip of his forefinger, and back.  It was the barest of touches, yet it sent his heart racing. 

Dismas leaned over, and Reynauld found himself frozen for a second, but then it was only an arm wrapping around his shoulders.  "I can give ya a ride," Dismas murmured, leaning close.  

Warm breath tickled the shell of Reynauld's ear and sent goosebumps all the way down his spine.  His eyebrows went up in a way that made Dismas grin at him.

"On my bike, I meant," he clarified, and, one intense look later, "But also off of it." 

Reynauld's mind went blank for a second, and then he tossed back what was left in his glass.  Light, he couldn't even remember what he'd drunk, but it sure hadn't been water. 

"Just going for a piss," he announced, relieved when he found he could stand without wavering. 

"Sure," Dismas said, and rested his chin in his hand, drumming his fingers against his cheek. 

The walk to the bathroom sobered Reynauld up a bit.  He was drunker than he had planned to be.  After relieving himself, he checked out his reflection in the large mirror above the sink.  His face was flushed, his eyes a bit glazy.  A splash of cold water helped.  The dispenser was out of paper towels, so Reynauld dried his hands off on his pants.  His fingers brushed against the pocket that reminded him that he was here to do a job, not to enjoy himself.  He might have forgotten, over the last hours. 

Dismas was still where he had left him, staring at the screen of his phone with a frown.  Hopefully no one had tipped him off in Reynauld's absence. 

"Everything alright?" Reynauld asked, announcing his return. 

Dismas' head shot up, and after a pause he nodded.  "Yeah.  Just... I actually came here to meet with someone, but they never showed up," he admitted. 

"Not a date, I hope," Reynauld chuckled.   

"No, just a friend."  The crease that had appeared between Dismas' dark brows disappeared when he shook his head.  "Screw it."  The screen flickered to black  and he put the phone away.   "If she can't be here on time, that's her loss.  Ready?" 

"Yes," Reynauld said with a nod, and then immediately corrected himself.  "No.  Wait.  I forgot to pay." 

Dismas waved a dismissing hand in the air.  "I know Jubie," he said.  "Had him put everything on my tab, he knows I'm good for it." 

Reynauld thanked him, wondering if what Dismas said was true.  For a man who had just lost most of his possessions and no stable income, he sure was generous. 

They left the bar, Reynauld noticing the light press of a hand on his lower back as he stepped through the doorway.  It was gone again when they rounded the bar to where Dismas' motorcycle was parked in the back. 

"That's the bike you told me about?" Reynauld asked with interest. 

"Yeah."  Dismas smiled and gave the leather seat a pat.  He pulled something from a box at the back.  "Here." 

Reynauld looked at the helmet that was being pressed into his hands, and didn't argue.  He wondered if his backup was around here somewhere, if they were watching right now.  If he would find Don't Drink and Drive stickers all over his workplace tomorrow. 

He swung his leg over the bike – with Dismas steering, the two of them made for a very snug fit.  Reynauld didn't even have to lean forward for his chest to be pressed to Dismas' back.  He could smell leather and soap, and before he could think too closely on his actions, he pressed a kiss into the short, spiky hair at the base of Dismas' skull, following it up with a light bite to his neck. 

"Fuckin' hell, Rey," Dismas murmured, just loud enough for Reynauld to make out.  He let out a shaky breath, before smiling at Reynauld over his shoulder.  "Hold on tight, yeah?" 

Reynauld put the helmet on, and his feet up, and did just as Dismas had suggested.  Both of his arms were wrapped around the other man's middle, and he would be lying if he said he wasn't enjoying the drive, short though it was. 

Dismas pulled to a stop only a couple of minutes later, in the abandoned lot in front of a high building with neon letters that read HOTEL.  Reynauld was fairly sure they were still the same district.  He could see the river from here, and a street of lights on the opposite shore told him roughly where the pier was.   

"'S not much," Dismas said, as if in apology, when he noticed Reynauld taking in their surroundings.  "But it'll do for the night.  Yer.. uh... welcome to stay the night," he offered almost shyly.  "I'll drive ya back tomorrow mornin'."

"Sounds like a deal," Reynauld said, and despite himself he had to smile as the hopeful look on the other man's face turned into a flash of teeth in the darkness.  It was marred only by the painful stab in his chest when he reminded himself that this was not real. 

Now that they were on their own, Dismas was no longer quite the cocky shit he had been at the bar.  He seemed to be genuinely caring, at least as far as casual one-night hookups went.  The bravado was less but not entirely gone, and there was still enough of an edge to him to give Reynauld a thrill. 

"Thanks for the helmet," he said, handing it back to its owner. 

Dismas took it from Reynauld's hands and put it back in the box, and when he straightened, a small crease appeared between his brows – but it was less of a frown and more born of concentration.  He reached out, his fingers threading though Reynauld's hair and lightly combing the messed up strands back into place. 

Reynauld's eyes fell shut under the touch, and when it was gone and did not return, he opened them again. 

Dismas was staring, and suddenly Reynauld could feel his gaze in every fibre of his body. 

"Fuck me, you're gorgeous," Dismas whispered, running both hands down Reynauld's chest. 

Joy, and confusion warred inside Reynauld.  When was the last time someone had said something like that to him?  But this wasn't real.  He wished it was.  And, just for a moment, it could be.  There was no one here to witness but the crickets chirping in the hedge and the bats that fluttered overhead. 

"Rey?" 

Reynauld made a questioning noise, not trusting himself with words. 

Dismas was still looking at him like he was someone who deserved this kind of adoration, and it twisted Reynauld's stomach even as it sent his heart racing. 

"I wanna kiss ya so bad." 

 _Yes_.  Reynauld swallowed.  A half-step closer and they were chest to chest.   Dismas' hands were on his shoulders, his own rested lightly on the other man's hips.  Their noses bumped, beard rasped against stubble, and then Dismas' breath was hot on his lips right before he pressed them together. 

It was just a touch at first, a chaste, close-mouthed kiss to the corner of Dismas' mouth, and then another one right on top of it.  Dismas wrapped his arms around him, his fingers curling tightly the leather of Reynauld's jacket.  He was a polite kisser, didn't take more than Reynauld offered, although he did lean in. 

It wasn't hurried, or slow.  It was thorough.  Reynauld enjoying the sensation, the light-headedness, the euphoria, the pure rush that was kissing someone for the first time.  Dismas' lips were soft under his, lightly chapped in one place.  It did not deter him from licking over them, asking permission to deepen their kiss. 

The sting from a playful nip on Reynauld's lower lip was quickly soothed when Dismas sucked on it.  Reynauld licked into his mouth, their breath hitching at the touch of tongue, almost too sensitive.  They quickly found a rhythm, let the give and take of passion take over, steer their movements. 

When they broke apart, just far enough to look into each other’s eyes, Dismas looked stunned for a moment.  He was breathing heavier than usual too, but he grinned when he said, "Now I can't wait to see ya out of these clothes, handsome." 

Reynauld couldn't return any of the compliments, couldn't bring himself to deceive the other man like this.  He ran his thumb over Dismas' cheek, the rest of his fingers tilting his chin up. 

The kiss was no lie.  His body was honest in a way he could not be, and it craved the other man's touch, his feel, his taste.  Dismas had the right height for kissing, even though on his tiptoes he still wasn't quite on par with Reynauld.  Their bodies fit together just right, and their mouths met halfway, sweet and hungry.  

Dismas moaned deep in the back of his throat, and Reynauld pushed closer, swallowing those little sounds.  They kissed until the necessity for air drove them apart, Reynauld drawing Dismas against him one more time before reluctantly letting go. 

"Elevator's that way," Dismas said, pointing his thumb over his shoulder and taking a couple of steps backs. 

"Lead on."  Reynauld followed, never loosing eye contact.  He was surprised, but not unpleasantly so, when Dismas took hold of his hand and tugged him onward. 

They shared a laugh, and another kiss, and didn't stop. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want Dismas' POV, check out the oneshot 'Cheap Thrills'


	5. Dismas

Fuck him, he was one lucky bastard.  Dismas grinned as he pulled Reynauld along, through the automatic doors of the hotel and towards the elevators.  Stairs were too much of a hassle at this point and besides, he wasn't sure if they would make it up the four stories.  The way things were headed, he wanted nothing more than a soft bed and a door to lock out the rest of the world. 

He had not expected tonight to go as it had.  Dismas had entered Jubie's with the intent of drinking until he wouldn't be able to see or think straight, until all the shit in his life would go away on its own.  Until he could no longer stew on how the pigs couldn't just storm somebody's room like that; not without a warrant or being invited.  But then, of course they could.  What were his options anyway?  Going to court to file a complaint? 

He couldn't even blame the night clerk for doing jack shit.  They probably had a stash of drugs somewhere and were really glad the police was distracted looking another way.  The raid had still cost Dismas a roof over his head and most of his possessions, which were few to begin with.  The former was replaceable, and he had enough money stashed away in other safe places, but that didn't mean the close call had not rattled him.  For a while he had felt the tightening of the noose around his neck as he watched the shreds of his life being confiscated and carried away, unable to do anything but hide in the shadows. 

Louet's arrest, the raid, the anger, frustration and fear of the past days; all would be forgotten in the haze of booze.  He'd pick a fight, get his ass tossed out of the bar, and then pass out while being patched up by Audrey.  

It had been a sound plan, which now it lay in shatters at the feet of Mr. Perfect, and his heart-stopping smile.  Reynauld didn't just look like he had stepped out of the front page of a magazine, he also kissed like the real deal. 

Dismas briefly thought of asking for Reynauld's phone number – maybe they could hook up again sometime.  Shit, they hadn't even done anything yet.  He shouldn't jump the gun.  Perhaps Reynauld was terrible in bed.  Or he had some weird kinks that not even Dismas, although he had always considered himself to be fairly adventurous and relaxed about those things, could live with.  Or he just wouldn't want to meet again with a guy who was that obviously desperate – desperate not just for a quick lay but for being with another human being.  One who wasn't the same four people he considered his friends, somebody who could make him feel a little bit less like the bag of trash left by the door and a lot more like someone who deserved this kind of affection. 

The 'up' button began to glow orange when Dismas jabbed it a couple of times, as if that would make the elevator descend quicker.  Reynauld chuckled, and damn if that low rumble wasn't more of a punch to the gut than anything a thug could throw at him. 

He wasn't ashamed to admit he was a sucker for those warm brown eyes, and the tiny creases that appeared at their corners whenever Reynauld smiled.  He was generous with those, and he had a laugh Dismas could die for.  The kind that came from deep within, genuine and impossible not to join in. 

Dismas knew he was one idiot in love.  He'd always crashed hard and fast, and he could contemplate this terrible mistake as he the elevator doors opened, and they stepped in.  Reynauld moved closer, his arms on each side of Dismas so that he could trap him between the rail and himself. 

"Hey." 

"Hm?" Dismas hummed, lifting his gaze from between his feet. 

Reynauld must've caught on to something.  His brows furrowed, one hand rubbing circles over Dismas' stomach and side.  "What's wrong?" 

"I feel good," Dismas said with a small, self-disparaging laugh.  "Something bad will surely happen in a moment.  For instance, we could get stuck in this elevator." 

Disaster did have a tendency to strike when things were going well.  Life seemed to get its kicks out of kicking him in the teeth.  Dismas had gotten used to rolling with the blows of fate, but he hated how now every moment of happiness also carried a hint of urgency, of trepidation. 

The corner of Reynauld's mouth twitched, and then he took full advantage of his position, leaning in and tracing the shape of Dismas' lips with his own, the touch feather light and almost tickling. 

Dismas couldn't tell if the dizzy weightless feeling was from kissing Reynauld, or the elevator taking off.  He did jump a bit when they stopped too early and the doors opened to a surprised-looking man and woman.  The couple looked at them, then at each other, and didn't get on. 

"Sorry, this one's taken," Reynauld said and reached over Dismas to push the button for the doors to close. 

The girl laughed, and then they both disappeared from view and were forgotten just as quickly. 

Dismas ran the palm of his hand over Reynauld's bearded cheek, turning his head around to steal one more kiss before a soft _ding_ announced they had arrived on the right floor.  The corridor was brightly lit, almost too much so after the outdoors and the muted elevator lights, and Dismas blinked owlishly as his eyes stung and watered. 

They went left and then took the first right, stopping in front of a wooden door with the number 41.  There, Dismas found out just how difficult finding and fitting the right key inside the keyhole was when you had a hunk pressing up against you from the back, peppering your neck with kisses that promised so much more to come. 

"Easy there, darlin'," he muttered, because at this rate they might as well have a roll on the carpeted floor.  But after several unsuccessful tries the lock finally clicked, and Reynauld marched them both into the semi-dark room.  There was just enough light to see by from the neon letters and the street lamps outside, and that was well because Dismas never got to flip the switch. 

He fell against the door the moment it closed behind them, his back to the wood, his front pressed against Reynauld.  They were close enough that he could feel the strength in the other man's arms, the way his muscles shifted under his clothes.  Too many clothes.  But they would surely resolve that problem in a short while. 

For now it was enough for Dismas let his head fall back, to better allow Reynauld to kiss along his jaw line, then down his throat and up the side of his neck.  He caught Dismas' earlobe between his teeth, and pulled until Dismas turned his head and kissed him, deep and messy. 

The way the soldier's arms tightened around him, the air was pressed out of him with an involuntary grunt, but Dismas wasn't a china doll.  He wouldn't want it any other way as long as he was still able to breathe.  Warm saliva on his neck and lips quickly cooled in the crisp night air, but the rest of Dismas' body was hot, and Reynauld was a furnace. 

And fuck, did he smell good. 

When Reynauld's hands found their way under Dismas' shirt, it was a bit too late to worry whether he would like what he found there.  Dismas had always thought he was in pretty decent shape, but he knew that he couldn't hide how hunger and violence had been stellar companions throughout his life. 

Reynauld didn't seem to mind at all.  He ran his palms up Dismas' ribs and over his chest, and when he withdrew it was only to help him lose the coat.  The shirt followed a couple of seconds after, and Reynauld turned his attention to undoing Dismas' belt buckle. 

"Somebody's eager," Dismas chuckled, grasping Reynauld's hands with his own. 

"I want to see you naked," Reynauld said, no longer ripping clothes off Dismas, but rather looking at him for direction. 

"Then let's take this somewhere more comfortable, huh?" Dismas suggested, and walked in the direction of the bed, not taking his eyes off Reynauld's face.  He sat down when his knees hit the mattress and toed off his boots.  Reynauld helped him pull off his pants and then crawled over him on all fours while Dismas scooted back on his elbows. 

The soldier's tags fell out of his shirt, and they were warm from resting on his own skin, the chain allowing Dismas to tug Reynauld low enough he could whisper into his ear,

"Come on, baby, take off that shirt." 

Dismas had to let go again when Reynauld sat up abruptly, and pulled it over his head in one fluid motion. 

And for the first time Dismas regretted the low light, because from what he could tell, Reynauld was a wet dream.  For a second he stared dumbly, undecided as to what he wanted to do.  First on his list was kiss those perfect abs – and then he would find himself at a crossroads.  Go up that sculpted chest, or down, following the trail of dark hair that disappeared under the rim of Reynauld's pants? 

Why was he still wearing those anyway?  

Dismas ran appreciative hands over Reynauld's abdomen.  Reynaud's skin was slightly tacky from sweat, and when Dismas circled one nipple with his thumb, he sucked in air through his teeth. 

Dismas grinned up at him, and with some effort, sat up.  He wrapped his arms around Reynauld to keep him from falling back again, and placed wet sloppy kisses all over Reynauld's chest.  With Reynauld sitting on Dismas' thighs, Dismas could tell that the other man was just as hard as he was. 

Dismas' own briefs were uncomfortably tight, the tip of his cock peeking out.  It was time to do away with them, and just as he thought that, Reynauld seemed to read his mind and responded by pushing Dismas into the mattress, his fingers intertwining with Dismas' above the smaller man's head. 

In a moment of clarity, and because there was no way he was getting up later, Dismas breathed,

"You got rubbers?" 

Reynauld paused for a second to think.  "Yeah.  Here, somewhere."  He reached into his pocket and there was a metallic clang. 

"Nope, that's keys.  Hang on."

Dismas chuckled, then 'oofed' when, without one hand to support himself, Reynauld's full weight pressed him into the mattress.  Reynauld could go a bit easier on his wrist, but then he fully settled between Dismas' legs and hell, Dismas wasn't going to complain ever again. 

Reynauld rocked and Dismas bucked up, eager for more contact.  They both gasped, and Reynauld dipped his head to kiss Dismas, his tongue slipping between Dismas' lips, who moaned his approval –

Something wasn't right.  Reynauld's grip, firm before, turned bruising and suddenly there was cold metal tightening around Dismas' wrist, followed by a ring and click, and before he knew what was going on, Reynauld rolled off. 

The soldier was out of the bed and on his feet with the grace of a mountain cat, and when Dismas tried to sit up, he was tugged back down.

He looked at his hand, the gleam of metal encircling his wrist.  It took his brain second to process that. 

He was handcuffed.  To the bed. 

"The fuck?" Dismas asked, confused and outraged, and with rising fear.  "THE FUCK, REYNAULD!?" 

"I'm sorry."  Reynauld ran a hand over his face, and backed away from the bed until he could let himself fall into the cushioned seat next to the small desk that was overflowing with hotel pamphlets and tourist attraction coupons. 

With his heart in his throat, no clue as to what to do now, and not daring to draw attention to himself, Dismas flinched when a moment later Reynauld announced in a measured flat voice that made Dismas' stomach turn,

"Riverside Police Department.  You are under arrest." 

Well, at least Reynauld was not some lunatic murderer.  But that also meant...

"You're a plant," Dismas blurted out. 

"I'm sorry," Reynauld repeated.  Dismas observed as Reynauld's thumb traced the shape of his lips, probably unconsciously, and wondered if he could still feel them kiss, if that was a memory he wanted to keep or wipe away. 

Reynauld seemed to become aware of his gaze, and his hand dropped.  He got up and picked his shirt off the floor, beating it out briefly before putting it back on again.  Seconds later the lights went on and Dismas hissed, shielding his eyes with his free arm.  By the time his eyes had adjusted, Reynauld had pulled out his phone, but he looked up from it when Dismas cleared his throat.

"If ya'd reach in the right front pocket of my jacket.  Could ya – "  He didn't finish, not wanting to plead for one tiny favour with the man who had just slapped handcuffs on him in the middle of a make-out session. 

Thankfully, he didn't have to. 

Reynauld found his jacket, picked it up and patted it down.  He quickly found the cigs and lighter, and looked back to him.  Dismas nodded.  It might be his last opportunity for who knew how long, and Reynauld apparently thought so too, because after contemplating it for a moment, he came to the conclusion that it couldn't hurt to let a defeated man enjoy one last smoke. 

Dismas watched Reynauld open the lid with a flick of his thumb and pull one of the cigarettes out with a fluid motion that spoke of practice.  He tapped the package against the table twice to knock the rest of the cigs back, and closed it again.  And then he put the one he had just taken between his own lips and lit up, and Dismas was stuck speechless, because he had not had the impression that the soldier was _that_ much of an asshole to torment him like this. 

Reynauld took a drag, and just as Dismas was getting ready to introduce the other man to some of his choicest curses, Reynauld exhaled and held out the cigarette.  He didn't come close, but had Dismas reach out instead, proper safety etiquette and all that. 

Dismas snorted and took the smoke which now held a faint taste of Reynauld.  Or perhaps it was just his imagination torturing him.  Disinclined to contemplate that particular brand of masochism any further, Dismas let himself fall back onto the mattress. 

Breathe in.  Hold.  Breathe out.  Watch it curl while everything around him flickered and blurred.  'The smoke,' he thought as Reynauld finally made his call.  His words ran together just like the water stains on the ceiling.  Dismas chose not to listen.  He probably should, but he just couldn't bring himself to do it.  Reynauld's voice tuned in and out like a radio when a child was fiddling with the volume button, and he let it all pass him by. 

Dismas had known.  He'd called it out.  Something bad was going to happen, because that was the story of his sorry fuckarse life.  He tried not to feel anything, to not let himself be affected and he certainly wasn't showing it – but it was the deepest cuts that hurt the least. 

He would have preferred to be taken down the old fashioned way.  A kick in the guts, a twisted arm and then at least all the pain would have been purely physical.  Dismas knew pain.  It was as familiar as the bottle and glass he used as a cure. 

A moment later there was a knock on the door and when Reynauld opened, in came the couple from two floors below.  The gal left after exchanging a few words with Reynauld and her colleague, but the guy came in.  He had a camera he aimed at the man who was still in his briefs, cuffed to the bed. 

"Smile for your mugshot," the policeman said as Dismas blinked at him from under heavy eyelids and released another plume of smoke. 

The flash blinded him and made green spots dance in front of his eyes.  Whatever.  Wasn't like anything fucking mattered anymore. 

Dismas watched camera guy take several shots of the hotel room, but it wasn't long before the two men turned to him and he spotted a set of keys in Reynauld's hand. 

"Are you going to resist?" Reynauld asked. 

Dismas thought it was a fairly stupid question.  He surely wasn't going to say so if the answer was yes.  But it was one against two with more police stationed outside the room, and even if he somehow managed to overpower Reynauld and his friend both, something that experience told him was a slim chance at best, what would he do then?  There was no other way for him to escape. 

"What's the point?" Dismas said with unconcealed bitterness, but he knew that his voice also carried a hint of resignation.  He stubbed the cigarette out against the wall.  It might be petty of him to vent his anger like that, but at this point, having nothing to lose, he didn't give a damn. 

"I'm going to need you to turn over on your stomach," Reynauld said, but it sounded all wrong.  It should have been a warm murmur in his ear after a round of foreplay, and Dismas hated how his brain still conjured those images up.  Of Reynauld kneeling above him, shirtless, breathless, aroused. 

"Kinky," Dismas replied.  "Want me to pretend to enjoy it, officer?" he asked, deliberately avoiding Reynauld's name.  This way he could at least act as if there was – had been – nothing going on between them.  A lie, but not the only one being told tonight.  For what he knew, Reynauld might not even be the guy's real name.  "Couple 'o minutes ago I might've." 

"Just don't give us a reason to fuck up your face any more than it already is," Reynauld's friend drawled in a cheerful tone, which, interestingly enough, earned him a glower from Reynauld. 

Dismas did not bother with an answer, and just did as he had been told.  At least they cuffed him quick and without causing any pain.  But it was anything but comfortable as his joints were twisted just enough to make struggle impossible.  Dismas pressed his face into the bedding, closed his eyes and did his best to relax.  He could tell that Reynauld knew what he was doing just by how he didn't cut him any slack.  If Dismas had wanted to put up any kind of fight, he would have regretted it very quickly. 

Once they had him restrained, Reynauld was _considerate_ enough to wrap Dismas' jacket around his shoulders, and to zip it up, which left Dismas naked only from his briefs down. 

All done, they led him out. 

 

If asked, Dismas wouldn't be able to recall the whole trip to the police department.  He heard Reynauld's friend tell some other officers that they were to 'wrap matters up', which probably meant to take the rest of his things.  And then, no matter how hard he tried, he could not recall walking through the hotel, or whether they had taken the stairs or the elevator. 

Getting into the police van stood out, mostly because Dismas had wondered whether the hand on his head was there so he wouldn't bang it against the doorframe, as getting in with handcuffs was somewhat awkward, or to do the very thing if he put up a fight. 

Reynauld fastened the seatbelt for him, while Dismas stared over his shoulder and off to the side.  The proximity allowed him to catch a whiff of whatever perfume Reynauld had used, and he swallowed.  The fucker had just arrested him, he shouldn't be wanting to kiss him as much as he did. 

And then Reynauld was gone, and a moment later the doors slammed shut.  From outside, Dismas could hear the muffled voice of Officer Number Two. 

"Everythin' alright?" 

"Y're asking _him_?" Dismas muttered.  "Seriously?" 

Then the noise of the engine drowned out any answer that Reynauld might have given his friend, and shortly after, they were moving.  Dismas wondered how rough of a ride he was going to get, but as it turned out, it wasn't that bad.  He could see the inside of the van flood with cold light whenever they passed a street lamp and the sharp edges of the shadows stretched and moved, before everything was plunged back into darkness. 

Dismas closed his eyes and let the lights flash over his eyelids before he could be overcome with nausea.  

He hated that he had a thing for powerful men in uniforms, enough to make him go completely stupid.  Reynauld had been watching him from the moment he had entered Jubert's.  Of course had.  But out of all the possible reasons, Dismas' lizard brain had not thought of the simplest of them all. 

They stopped an indefinite amount of time later, and the sudden silence made Dismas aware of the rush of blood in his ears.  A lump was forming in his stomach, and it was a good thing he was already sitting down, because his knees felt very weak all of a sudden. 

When Reynauld returned to take him in, he found Dismas with his head between his knees, trying to keep his breathing even. 

"M'coming," Dismas muttered, and convulsively tried to swallow past the cottony feeling of his tongue.  "Just seasick." 

He did not see Reynauld's reaction, but he didn't instantly force Dismas to get up and move, but let him get a few steadying lungfuls of fresh night air first. 

When Dismas got off the van he found himself in a stone courtyard, surrounded by arched entryways on one side and Dismas' as of right now least favourite building on the other.  It was mostly unlit, but even so it could not be mistaken for anything but the Riverside PD. 

Reynauld took Dismas past a guardhouse, through a barrier and into a corridor that had all the allure of a hospital waiting room.  From the outside the police station had looked abandoned, but inside there were plenty of people going about their business.  Some greeted Reynauld, some cast curious looks at Dismas, but most of them appeared to be too engrossed in their own tasks to really care about one more guy in handcuffs. 

"So what happens now?" Dismas asked, as they walked past a set of doors that looked much too solid and high-security for his liking. 

Reynauld answered, but his reply was more professional than friendly.  "We need to book you in, and then you will be in holding until my superior arrives to question you." 

"Sounds like fun," Dismas muttered.  "Where do I check in?"

As it turned out, it was in the second room right around the corner.  He was photographed, fingerprinted and then a wild-eyed doctor who had a subtle air of crazy about her drew his blood before sending him on his way to have his chest x-rayed. 

When everything was done, Dismas received some pocketless, drab grey prison clothes and was finally allowed to dress. 

Out of all the things Reynauld could have said to him in parting, it had to be,

"Whatever you do, don't accept any kind of drink." 

He didn't explain.  He just left Dismas in a cell that was already occupied by three other men.  One of them was lying stretched out on one of the two benches, a little pool of drool collecting under his chin.  The second one was sitting on the floor. He had a staple of blank papers and was drawing simple, childlike pictures with crayons while the third man was having a very animated conversation with one of the corners.  Neither of them noticed the new arrival, which was probably for the best. 

Dismas' sole consolation was that Reynauld had taken off the handcuffs, and that within the cell he could move around freely.  Not that there was much space to do so.  In the end, he made himself as comfortable as possible on the unoccupied bench. 

It was chilly in here, and he wished for his coat to wrap around himself, but that had been confiscated, alongside his earring.  The adrenaline high of his arrest was beginning to wear off, and the subsequent crash combined with the waiting and the uncertainly, were slowly but surely beginning to take their toll.  In addition to that, Dismas tried not to think about the walls surrounding him, the iron bars and how this might be the only view he was going to get for the rest of his days. 

He distracted himself by trying to remember the way back to the exit, but the truth was that he did not even know in which block the prison was located.  His only clue was on the far wall in the form of a tiny green plaque with a white arrow underneath, the former of which read _forensics_. 

There was no clock for him to keep track of the passing of time, and little else to do but shift in discomfort and to keep a wary eye on the other prisoners and the occasional police officer walking by. 

He never heard or saw the doc who had been present during his examination arrive.  When he turned to look out past the bars, she was right there, watching him like he was a curiosity in an expo, or maybe an animal in the zoo.  Dismas was so startled by her sudden appearance, that he jerked violently enough to rattle the bench underneath him. 

"Did you know that before syringes the medicus would use leeches?" the blonde woman asked him out of the blue.  "Their practices were most curious." 

"W- what?" Dismas stammered, completely taken off-guard and with his heart still wildly palpitating in his chest. 

"Nothing," the doc replied and lifted a silver can.  "Coffee?"  

Dismas looked from the sleeping man to the other one who now rocked back and forth while the last one raved on about doom, lost eyes and knives in his back, and swallowed. 

"Thanks, 'm good," he said, scooting a little bit further back. 

The doc made a small disappointed noise in the back of her throat, and abruptly turned and left. 

Dismas pulled his knees up against his chest, so he could rest his chin on them. 

If the holding cells were meant to intimidate him, it was working.  He might have expected to be tied to a chair and have the truth beaten out of him with a crowbar, but not to get drugged, be put in a diaper, and spilling the beans willingly. 

He was up in an instant when Reynauld returned.  Dismas did not care what was going to happen next, he only knew that if he stayed in here much longer, he would lose his sanity as well.  

"Did someone offer you something?" was the first thing out Reynauld's mouth, and he cast a glance full of suspicion in the direction of the door through which the strange woman had disappeared what must have been hours ago.  He did not seem fazed by the condition of Dismas' cell mates at all. 

"Yeah – ," Dismas said, hurrying to add,  "I didn't take it." 

"Oh.  Good." 

The relief in Reynauld's voice made Dismas' brows shoot up in alarm.  "Ya know, I don't think that's legal."  He pointed his thumb over his shoulder. 

"I have no idea what you are talking about," Reynauld replied flatly. 

Of course not.  Dismas did not argue as he was put back in handcuffs.  Reynauld kept a firm hold on his arm, and led them through another maze of corridors.  Dismas wondered if this place was specifically designed so as to make any attempts of escape nigh impossible.  It was highly probable. 

"Is Mallory here yet?" Reynauld asked when they arrived at a door that was being guarded by one bored police officer. 

"Yep," came the answer.  "She's just finished talking to the other guy.  You can go right in once they come out." 

Dismas wasn't paying attention, until the doors opened and he came face to face with Reynauld's redhaired friend, and –

"Louet – "  Dismas stared, that one word caught in his throat like a cough, threatening to suffocate him. 

Louet's eyes caught Dismas', and immediately flittered away again, and Dismas knew in that moment who had sold him out.  He wouldn't have believed it before.  What had happened to the promises, to it being them against the rest of the world?  Thick as thieves was apparently just a saying, after all. 

And now there was nothing; no cocky grin, no nod – the back-stabbing piece of shit didn't even have the gall to look him straight in the eye. 

Dismas was still reeling from the encounter when he was led into the room and made to sit down.  The table and chairs were bolted to the floor, and Dismas quickly got handcuffed to the former.  It wasn't Reynauld who took his place on the other side, but a stern looking woman who introduced herself as Mallory Dumont, deputy director of the RPD.  She had to be the Reynauld's superior then. 

"I'd rise fer a lady, Dismas said, "but," he shrugged and rattled the metal links. 

Mallory did not crack a smile, nor did her lips so much as twitch.  Reynauld himself had a chair in the corner of the room, and he was balancing a clipboard on his knees.  He appeared to be busy with some paperwork, but if that was the case, there'd be no reason for him to do it right here, right now. 

Mallory paid him no heed, and Dismas tried not to let the other man's presence distract him too much.  It was easier said than done, especially when Reynauld made a face as if the form had insulted his entire ancestral line, or when he tapped the end of his pen against his cheek, lost in thought. 

Mallory herself could have been carved out of marble.  Dismas thought that she was the kind of person who used all the big words in conversation.  Not to impress, but because she knew exactly what they meant and when to use them. 

Dismas by contrast, could barely string together enough syllables to turn them into something that resembled language.  He was cold and hungry, with a headache building behind his eyes and a throat that was sore from thirst.  All in all, perfect conditions for the cops to question him. 

"Do I get an attorney?" Dismas wanted to know, fully aware that he was grasping at straws. 

"Technically, you have the right," Reynauld's boss replied without a hint of concern.  She held all the cards, and she knew it.  "If you cannot afford one, one will be appointed to you." 

And Dismas knew just how unbiased and committed said person would be.  The police knew he could not afford legal counselling.  After all, they had been the ones who had taken his possessions. 

"Practically," Mallory continued, "You are not a citizen, which means we do not have to prosecute you at all.  There are others who would be happy to do so in our stead.  For instance, several of the Northern city-states where, I believe, you are better known under the name Valance Paixdecoeur." 

Dismas stared ahead blankly.  If they knew his name, there was nothing he could do to stop them from unrolling his past. 

He could not go to prison in the North.  Too many broken ties, too much history.  He was sure he would not live long enough to serve his full term.  Not that he would want to, in that scenario.  Banditry and murder would get him a lifelong sentence, even without the more recent addition of burglary and car theft. 

"So as you can see," Mallory resumed, "There is no point in withholding information."

"If I do know something," Dismas said, licking dry lips.  His head was spinning too much for him to be clever, so he outright asked, "What do I get out of it?" 

"You misunderstand the nature of this relationship," Mallory retorted with glacial composure.  "The PD does not need your cooperation.  We would merely prefer it." 

Dismas had to give it to her; she had more balls than most gang leaders he had known. 

"What do you want?" he rasped. 

Mallory did not give an indication that she was pleased with how everything had turned out.  She was too professional for that.  What she wanted, boiled down to Dismas giving them names, dates, any and every kind of dirt he had that would be of help to their investigation.  His little side-venue of robbing graves seemed barely a concern to them.  No, they had fatter fish to catch.  They were going for El Abuelo, and they were doing it via the Wolf. 

Dismas had been part of the outfit for a while, and while he actually knew little about the legendary bandit boss whose name was still only spoken in hushed whispers in parts of the North, he had maintained old contacts, and some of whom owed him favours. 

"If you cooperate to your fullest extent, and your contribution is found to significantly have helped the outcome of the investigation, we would be willing to advocate for a lighter sentence," Mallory added, as if in afterthought. 

Ah.  First the crop, then the carrot. 

"And who's to decide that?" Dismas wanted to know, even though he had his suspicions.  

"Us," Mallory replied and did not blink when Dismas huffed at the blatant unfairness of it all.  "Or more specifically, the senior officer in charge of the operation." 

The saddest part was that it was still the best deal he was going to get.  Dismas was no rat, but what good was there for him in protecting people who would not return the favour?  It seemed these days he only had false friends who either already had or who without a second thought would sell him out for a chance at their own freedom. 

Dismas nodded, not trusting his voice, and silently agreed to cooperate. 

"Excellent.  Mallory reached into her bag and took out a folder, putting its contents in front of Dismas. 

Dismas looked at the stack of papers that were undoubtedly full of legal bullshit, and with a sigh, he grabbed the pen and drew the first one closer. 

"You should read this before you sign," Reynauld chimed in from the back.  He had barely said anything during this entire time, and now his comment had Dismas grinding his teeth together. 

This was the worst possible time to make this confession, but, "I can't – "

"You can't read," Mallory stated coolly. 

"I can read," Dismas snarled, instantly furious they would assume he was just one more dumb criminal ne'er-do-well from the North – even though the parts about crime and the North were actually true.  "I just can't – "  He couldn't make out the mouse shit letters when they were so tiny that the words were running together in blurry lines. 

Reynauld rose, carried his chair over to the side of the table and took the papers out of Dismas' hands before he could crumple them in his frustration..  Reynauld cleared his throat and began to read slowly, tracing the text with his index finger to indicate where he was. 

The last thing Dismas wanted to feel was _grateful_.  He wondered if he should ask the police to print out the stupid forms in a larger font size.  That would be the smart thing to do.  Refuse to sign anything he could not verify reading for himself.  But Dismas had never been the smartest.  He wanted to believe the man who was so good at playing the good cop, who without being asked explained what most of the legal stuff actually meant, and who managed not to sound condescending to boot. 

And above everything else, Dismas was tired.  Tired of hiding from the gangs, tired of running from cops and former friends alike.  At least now he had certainty.  As long as he stayed here, in Velstaad, he had a chance at life.  At escape. 

Audrey had not taken to hiring him to jiggle one security system or another for nothing.  He wasn't possessed of a magic touch like she claimed, but repairing vehicles was not the only skill he had. 

It would take time and a lot of planning, but for now, it would do. 

Dismas scrawled his name wherever Reynauld pointed.  When they were done, he collected the stack of papers, and handed them back to Mallory. 

She rose without another glance at the prisoner, put the documents in a folder, and nodded.  "Well done, Maurouard.  He is all yours." 

"E – excuse me?" Reynauld stammered. 

Dismas nodded to show he agreed with the cop.  _The fuck?_

"I was under the impression this was your case?" Mallory said with raised brows.  "Assigned to you by the chief?" 

_Oh._

"Oh."  Reynauld said sheepishly and Dismas just knew they had both thought the exactly same thing.  "Yes." 

"Is there a problem?" Mallory enquired, her bright eyes drilling a hole right through both men. 

"None," Reynauld replied, not very convincingly. 

But Mallory either did not notice, or did not care, because she left shortly after, leaving Reynauld to regain his composure and Dismas to ponder the meaning of that brief exchange.  It looked like he would have to work for and with Reynauld.  Their eyes met. 

Dismas was the first to look away.  He snorted.  They'd both believed that Miss Mallory was implying –

"What?" Reynauld's question interrupted Dismas' train of thought. 

"Just wonderin'," Dismas said, "What bein' a pig's like." 

"It's diverse, and I'm not just referring to work hours," Reynauld replied, deadpan.  

Dismas barked out a surprised laugh, but the amusement lasted only a moment.  "Wish I could hate you," he muttered. 

Dismas could hear Reynauld exclaim noisily. 

"Same."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter should have been out two weeks ago, but I didn't make it before leaving for a place where finding internet is still a tricky, tricky business. Late or not, I hope you will enjoy it nonetheless and wish to thank you for your patience!
> 
> And for all of you who missed the Tumblr post, I made a Dismas themed playlist that I'm now shamelessly self-promoting. You can find it here:  
> http://bluraaven.tumblr.com/post/170376362381/dismas-playlist


	6. Reynauld

"We got him!" 

Guyot's grin practically stretched from ear to ear, and his enthusiasm, which was usually infectious, only moved Reynauld to respond with a twitch that did not resemble a valiant attempt at a smile so much as it did him suddenly suffering a stroke. 

Guyot was right though.  Dismas was under lock and key in one of the holding cells, and in theory today's work was done and the operation a full success.  They had gotten their target, and as the leading officer in charge, Reynauld should be celebrating his victory. 

But the truth was that instead of receiving back-pats and congratulations from the whole department, Reynauld would much rather have spent the night in someone else's arms. 

 

Guyot had driven the van on their way back from the hotel, and that at least had left Reynauld to slump in the passenger seat, too out of it to do more than watch the city lights speed past them.  Once they had arrived, he had been able to hold it together long enough to escort Dismas to the prison, and then he had promptly fled to his office under the pretext of having to write reports. 

That had been an hour ago.  He hadn't even fired up the computer yet.  Instead, he had chosen to wallow in alcohol-fortified self-pity.  With his arms crossed on his desk, and his head resting upon them, Reynauld passed the time by watching his office sway gently, as if it were inside a boat that was floating on a relatively calm sea.  His right hand had slipped from the wooden surface of his desk, and back then it had seemed like too much of a bother to lift it back up. 

Only when somebody knocked at his door did Reynauld look up, but as soon as it turned out to be Guyot, he lowered his head again.  And because Guyot was Guyot, he was brimming with energy and joy, the combination as loathsome to Reynauld at this very moment, as sunshine and music were to the hungover.  But he was still Reynauld's best friend, and so Reynauld had greeted him with a limp flap of his hand that could mean anything really, but which Guyot interpreted as an invitation to come in and sit down. 

 

"Yeah," Reynauld sighed, because some manner of verbal answer was necessary, lest his friend call the paramedics on him.  "We did." 

"This don't work on me, ya know?" Guyot said and dipped his head so that he could look Rey in the eyes.  

Reynauld, in turn, could verify that that infuriating smile was still in place.  He didn't like how Guyot could look through him.  Not that he had been putting any kind of effort into pretending that everything was fine and dandy, but still.  He guessed that was the price you had to pay for having friends you have known since you both had been in diapers.  They cared enough to make you miserable to make you feel better. 

The thought struck, wrapping itself around Reynauld's brain like a python, writhing and constricting, and after a moment he wasn't even sure what he'd meant by thinking that.  It hurt to think.  And because he was hurting enough already, he stopped.  Thinking, not being in pain.  If Reynauld had been able to something about the latter, he already would have. 

"Come on," Guyot cajoled in a sweet, patient voice.  "What's wrong?" 

Reynauld shook his head, something that required major effort, since it still rested upon his arms.  He could hear the sigh float over him like a raincloud. 

"Rey?" 

"You were right," Reynauld finally replied and nodded.  A moment later he couldn't tell whether his head was still moving, or whether his office was accelerating.  He swallowed, closed his eyes, and muttered, "This was a terrible idea." 

A moment of silence followed. Then,

"Look, I'm sorry ya had to put up with that sleazebag," Guyot began tentatively, but– .  

"What?"  Reynauld blurted out.  He had meant moving, but slowly the meaning of Guyot's words wormed its way through to his brain. 

"Remember when I said it couldn't be worse than my last date?" Reynauld said slowly. 

"Yeah?"  Guyot sounded confused. 

Reynauld had a hunch that if he'd been sober this conversation would not be happening, at least not like this.  

"Well, was it?" his friend finally asked, when he forgot to continue. 

"No."  Reynauld remembered the way Dismas' thigh had pressed against his in the bar, how it had felt to hold him close on the ride to the hotel.  All the little sounds he'd made when Reynauld had kissed him breathless.  "Wasn't the second worst either," he mumbled.  "Wasn't bad at all." 

"Rey?" 

"It was the best date I've ever had." Reynauld looked at Guyot in accusation, as if he were to blame for the unfairness of it all.  It had to be the drink.  It was to blame for turning him maudlin, and erasing that invaluable filter between his brain and his mouth. 

"Oh no," he heard Guyot sigh, before the warm comforting weight of a hand landed on his shoulder.  His friend gave him a little shake that Reynauld did not respond to.  "I'm sure Para has something that could cheer you up," Guyot said, making an attempt at levity. 

"Fuck off," Reynauld muttered, suddenly on the verge of tears.  He was tired, drunk, and his best friend was being an ass, all of which amounted to him feeling like a steaming pile of shit. 

"That bad, huh?" Guyot asked, and with a deep breath he wrapped an arm around Reynauld.  "C'mere." 

Reynauld leaned into the offered embrace like a tree being felled.  Guyot caught him, held him, and rubbed large, soothing circles into his back.  It felt good.  Safe and familiar.  Guyot smelled like coffee and industrial detergent and Reynauld didn't know how long he ended up sniffing into his friend's collar while the world wavered between warm and fuzzy, and being a cold hopeless place.  

"I'm drunk," Reynauld eventually confessed in a whisper. 

"I can tell," Guyot replied, his voice thick with amusement.  "Good thing I didn't let you drive." 

"I didn't mean to get drunk," Reynauld complained.  But Dismas had been company, and he'd lost count of the drinks they'd had.  Finally he'd found what he had been looking for, something – someone fun and exciting, and now they were gonna take him away, and he had no one to blame but himself. 

"So, just how much did ya drink?" Guyot wanted to know. 

"I don't remember," Reynauld answered in a low murmur, slightly embarrassed.  He had not felt nearly as drunk in the hotel room, but it had gradually gotten worse, over time.  Some of the stronger booze had to be hitting him late.  

"Well, that's one too much for sure," Guyot chuckled, and gave Reynauld's arm a sympathetic pat.  Why don't ya get some sleep?  Things'll look brighter in the morning, I promise ya." 

Reynauld didn't want to go back to an empty home.  His wife was gone, his kid wasn't there either, and his almost-lover of half a night was behind bars.  His eyes began to burn again. 

This was why he didn't drink in first place. 

It was not the first time he had decided to save himself the train ride home, and Guyot helped him set up with the emergency camping kit that consisted of a therm-a-rest mat, a small blow up pillow, a sheet and some blankets.  Guyot even got him a bottle of water, which became just half of one within seconds of meeting Reynauld. 

Reynauld brushed his teeth in one of the nearby bathrooms and undressed back in his room, folding his clothes as neatly as he could manage on his desk.  Then, he laid down on the mattress. 

The air escaped with a noise like a fart, and he groaned, an unhappy little sound, unwitnessed by anything but the floorboards.  It was a show of iron self-control when Reynauld got up again to let the mat refill before he twisted the little air vent to screw it shut.  Tomorrow he could take a shower downstairs, get a clean uniform, and be as good as new. 

Today, he was allowed to be as miserable as he wanted to be.  And because he was already on his feet, Reynauld remembered to lock his office.  The last thing he wanted was for one of his superiors to encounter him in his briefs, drooling on the floor. 

 

Morning did eventually arrive after a much too short night that Reynauld had thankfully managed to sleep through.  With the sun shining through the window everything was literally brighter, just as Guyot had promised, although Reynauld wasn't so sure about whether he felt better or worse.  It would take approximately half a galleon coffee for him to find out, so he decided to get an early start on that front. 

He dressed and cleaned himself up, then brewed a pot, immediately consumed half of it, and headed downstairs to see who was already in.  Guyot wasn't going to arrive until midday, and most of his team were off-duty until much later in the day.  After a brief chat with Barristan, Reynauld headed back to his office to catch up on paperwork which he had neglected yesterday. 

Once finished, he stretched, and called for Marci to take the reports to the Chief. 

"Oh, but he's got a conference outta town," Marci said apologetically.  "Neville told me, when I mentioned I thought I'd seen his car earlier.  Anyway, I guess that means Mal's in charge." 

She would be; and Reynauld had Marci take the folders to her instead. 

Her reply came soon enough. 

 

If he'd had a moderately crappy night, Dismas' must have been quite a ways further up on the Scale of Suck.  Reynauld wasn't sure why a couple of hours later he tormented himself with personally escorting the prisoner when he could have sent anybody else to do the job. 

Maybe it was an inherent streak of masochism, or maybe it was guilt – but either way, he found himself in front of Dismas' cell.  Dismas, who actually looked marginally relieved to see him again. 

Judging by the dark circles under his eyes, Dismas had not been able to rest at all, and Reynauld would have been surprised if he had.  The holding cells were meant to make the stay in them as unpleasant as possible, and the regular visits from the forensics team did not make matters any better.  Dismas was probably right in that half of what went on in that tract was against the law. 

Not that anybody would know from how operations were being run topside. 

Mallory was the epitome of professionalism, and Reynauld had to sit through a very uncomfortable hour in which Dismas' defences were one by one pulled down until defeated, he agreed to cooperate. 

It took roughly another hour for Reynauld to read and explain all the legal paperwork, and for Dismas to sign all the forms before Reynauld could escort him back to a cell – this time, a more adequate one for long-term detention. 

They rounded the corner, but they were not the only ones, and what happened did so too fast for Reynauld to intervene.  A surprised gasp was followed by a shout of pain, coffee cups went sailing and Marci stared at them in wide-eyed shock, the tablet still clutched in her hands.  Reynauld was spared the torrent of brown liquid, but Dismas caught the brunt of it and he let out a litany of curses while trying to tug the sodden and undoubtedly scalding shirt away from his chest. 

"I'm so sorry–" 

"Feckin' shite– !"

"I didn't see you– " 

"Fuck this cunt piece of a day with a splintering two by four!" 

"Marci," Reynauld said, trying to keep his calm.  It wasn't her fault.  It wasn't anybody's fault.  It was a stupid accident.  Those happened sometimes. 

"I'm so sorry!"  Marci stammered, the tablet shaking in her hands so much, she threatened to spill more coffee.  "I'm so sorry, Rey." 

"What am I, chopped liver?" Dismas muttered darkly. 

"Guyot sent me for some coffee; he's interrogating the other guy, and I didn't see you around the corner– ," 

"What other guy?" Dismas asked, but Marci was still stuttering apologies, so Reynauld hushed her and ordered her to get a mop and wipe the floor while he would take care of Dismas. 

Reynauld half expected a little puff of dust to rise from how quickly Marci made a dash for it, undoubtedly relieved that he wasn't upset or going to shout at her in the middle of the office and not willing to hang around in case he changed his mind. 

"Well, this is great," Dismas bit out through clenched teeth a moment later.  "This whole fucking mess is just.  Fantastic.  You get to be my babysitter and I'm fucked six ways to Sunday if anybody ever finds out I talked."

"Did she burn you?" Reynauld asked, trying to be patient, calm, professional.  To channel a little bit of Mallory. 

"No," Dismas grunted.  

"I mean it.  I can take you to the medical wing," Reynauld offered. 

"M' _fine_ ," Dismas said in a tone that made Reynauld feel slightly uncomfortable because of how familiar it sounded. 

So that's what it was like to be on the receiving end of that.  "If you say so," Reynauld agreed, not believing it for a second and feeling a twinge of sympathy for Guyot. 

"Are you gonna get me out of this, or do I have to smell like cafeteria from now on?" Dismas asked, once more tugging on the clothes he had been given upon his arrival at the PD.  Both the shirt and sweatpants were marred by large, brown coffee stains. 

"You'll get clean clothes," Reynauld assured him.  

"Good." 

For a moment, Reynauld thought that Dismas sounded slightly mollified, but apparently he had just been getting ready to throw the next punch. 

"I wouldn't want you pigs all over me like strays over a bitch in heat." 

"No danger there," Reynauld choked out, once he was done picking his jaw off the floor.  _What the hell?_

"Just you then, huh?" Dismas asked in a mock sweet tone.  "You know, you should receive an award for that act. 

"Don't."  Reynauld bit out.  He understood the other man's anger.  He did not deserve it, not after going out of his way to make sure Dismas wouldn't look like an illiterate idiot in front of Mallory, but he understood it.  That did not mean he was willing to put up with everything Dismas threw his way. 

"Why not?"  Dismas cocked a brow.  "Should be proud o'yerself.  Had me fooled, ya know?" 

"I'm not– ,"  Reynauld near-shouted. 

"Will you mention it in your report?" Dismas continued, his voice rising in volume too, but his tone had soured, had become spiteful.  "What it was like to kiss me?  Or how you were hard for me?" 

Reynauld's eyes narrowed, but Dismas took no heed.  "And today I almost though ya were the Good Cop."

"I very much hope that I am a good cop," Reynauld finally cut him short, stepping in front of Dismas and blocking his further way.  From their encounter at Jubert's, Reynauld already knew Dismas wasn't intimidated by thugs larger than he was, but he wasn't some bar-brawling punk and if Dismas wanted some, he could say whatever he wanted to get it right here, right now.  If he had the balls. 

Anybody who might have passed by in that moment, would be greeted by an interesting sight; a silent standoff between a man in cuffs and ruined clothes, and one officer in slightly rumpled uniform. 

Dismas was the first to look away. 

Reynauld shook his head, and pushed Dismas in the direction of the nearest showers that also happened to contain his locker.  He should follow protocol and take him back to the prison tract, but the faster he got this job done, the faster he could hand off Dismas to somebody else, and take his mounting frustration out on the dummies in the gym rather than on the prisoner next to him. 

"Mind the stairs – ," Reynauld barked, one-finger-punching the light switch with more force than it deserved.  

"F– !" 

Dismas pitched forward and Reynauld reacted instantly, catching him under the arm.  Having a kid had honed his reflexes of catching smaller people from busting their skulls on the floor.  Dismas counted, because he only came up to Reynauld's nose. 

Reynauld expected another tirade, but when he turned to face Dismas, he could see that Dismas' brows had drawn together, and up. 

"Why?" Dismas asked the sound of his voice brittle.  

"Why what?" Reynauld repeated, confused and unsure of what had just happened. 

"If I were you," Dismas explained, as if he were talking to a child, "I would have kicked myself down those stairs." 

"Too much paperwork," Reynauld replied before he could think of any better reply. 

Dismas blinked and then he failed at fighting off a smile, which resulted in the corners of his mouth being tugged in different directions. 

"Rey– ," Dismas said, exasperated. 

"Yeah?" 

Dismas' brows drew up in surprise.  "So that really is your name?" 

"It is," Reynauld confirmed. 

"You're the guy who arrested me.  I don't want to like you," Dismas said, and instantly looked like he would have rather bitten off his own tongue. 

"... but you do?" Reynauld dared to ask, and he was met with a pained look. 

He had never apologized a to a crook before.  (But then he had also never arrested one during foreplay.)  Yet this seemed important, somehow. 

"I told you, I'm sorry," Reynauld began.  "I mean it.  And I know it's not much, but I was after a criminal.  My job was to catch the Grave Robber.  I didn't mean to hurt... _you_." 

A muscle on the side of Dismas' jaw twitched, and he gave Reynauld a curt nod. 

"I like you too," Reynauld admitted softly and watched the furrows on Dismas' brow and between his eyes deepen. 

Dismas took a deep breath, and it appeared as if he wanted to say something, because his mouth worked, but in the end, couldn't.  A couple of tries later, he finally managed to croak, "You're alright.  An' a good cop, I guess." 

Reynauld sensed that he'd have a crick in his neck if he suffered any more whiplash, but he appreciated the sentiment.  This was better than being an outlet for the other man's anger.  Much better. 

"Thank you." 

There.  They'd talked.  Things had been said.  In the low light, Dismas' eyes looked nearly black.  Reynauld wished he had something more to add, or that Dismas would make a joke, say something clever.  He didn't. 

Rey did.  "Hey." 

Dismas looked up, and the sane part of Reynauld watched with detached terror as he stroked a hand over Dismas cheek, before leaning down and kissing him. 

Reynauld realized he might have made a mistake when Dismas' teeth closed on his lip with enough force to hold him in place and do some serious damage if he bit down. 

"Ain't you lucky I never hurt a lover," Dismas murmured, and, as if the arrest had never happened, he pulled himself into the kiss, open-mouthed and soothing the sting in Reynauld's lip by sucking on it. 

Reynauld wrapped his arms around the smaller man's frame.  Why did this have to feel so good?  Why did Dismas' rugged looks and snarky remarks rouse something in him that none of his 'respectable' dates ever had?  He licked over Dismas' lips, who opened right up and ran his tongue over Reynauld's.  Reynauld thought that his chest might burst if that bubble of happiness inside it swelled any more. 

Dismas' cuffed hands ran over his stomach, stroking, petting, groping.  "See?  Told ya 'bout the coffee stains," Dismas mumbled between kisses. 

Reynauld's laughter was muffled, and he reached under Dismas' shirt and pulled it over the other man's head.  There was no way to get it past the handcuffs and off completely, so Reynauld simply made Dismas lift his arms over his head where they were in no danger of coming close to his belt again.  Dismas didn't seem to mind.  He held Reynauld's head with both hands and tongue kissed him like there was no tomorrow.  

Reynauld grabbed Dismas by the hips, and began to walk them towards the showers.  Small steps, one leg between Dismas', it was almost like a slow dance.  One that ended once they were on the tiled floor on the other side of the room. 

Dismas was alternatively running his hands through Reynauld's hair, and cupping his jaw.  The handcuffs barely seemed to hinder him. 

Reynauld broke off their kiss only when he shoved down Dismas' sweats and briefs in one go, kneeling to get them down around Dismas' ankles.  He felt Dismas' weight as the other man braced himself on his shoulder. 

Reynauld thought that as he came up, he caught a flash of disappointment, but then Dismas stepped out of his pants, kicked them off, and wiggled his brows.  He was only half-hard, but that changed quickly when Reynauld's hand wrapped around his cock, giving him a few good tugs from base to tip. 

"Ah, fuck!" 

Dismas' arms tightened around Reynauld's neck.  Reynauld could see that his pupils were blown wide, and he leaned in again, claiming Dismas' mouth with his own.  His own pants were tight, but he could wait.  First he wanted to enjoy Dismas' cock in his hand, the weight and feel of it once it filled out.  Its heat, the softness of skin. 

He wanted to hear the noises Dismas was making against his lips when Reynauld pulled on him, slow and hard, or how his breathing stopped and picked up again with how he thumbed the sensitive head.  Dismas twitched in his hand, and after only a few passes, he was leaking slick. 

Reynauld grinned and ignored the growl and the nip of teeth against his neck as he let go of Dismas to run his hands over the other man's backside, kneading his firm buttocks.  If this were another time and place, he might have done more than just trace Dismas' crack with his index finger before brushing past it.  Or he would have paid more attention to Dismas' balls.  

But time was one of the things they were short on, and with only the mildest pangs of regret, Reynauld returned his attention to Dismas' cock, running the backs of his knuckles lightly over its underside. 

Dismas nudged Reynauld's nose with his own, to get some attention. 

"You too," he panted.  "C'mon." 

Reynauld could not take off his pants without also losing his belt, and that was actually a whole lot more complicated than it sounded.  He just unzipped his fly, tugged his underwear to the side, and pulled out his own prick. 

They barely touched like this, the position not allowing for proper contact, and Dismas grunted in frustration.  Reynauld picked up one of Dismas' legs, and lifted it so that the crook of the other man's knee was right over that of his elbow.  Unbalanced, Dismas pitched backwards, and hit one of the shower knobs.  Cold water sprayed them both. 

They gasped, then laughed, and then Dismas' low moan was the only sound to be heard for a long time as Reynauld began to grind against him. 

"Yeah.  Fuck, _yes_." 

Dismas bit the lobe of Reynauld's ear, pulled on it and then mouthed along his neck.  Despite his limited options of movement, Dismas was rutting back as much as he could. 

The water turned from icy to warm quickly, and their new position allowed Reynauld to stoke them both in tandem.  His back and the backs of his thighs were burning, but it was only a mild inconvenience at this point, because Dismas was panting against Reynauld's lips, open-mouthed and with a look of intense concentration on his face.  A couple of tugs later and he swallowed, opening his eyes briefly, and then squeezed them shut again, hips bucking wildly.

Reynauld stroked himself faster.  He could feel Dismas come and the additional weight as the other man let himself be held up.  Reynauld rested his forehead against Dismas' and tightened his hold until the dark bathroom was suddenly lit up by a shower of bright sparks, the water instantly sluicing away any evidence of their tryst. 

Dismas let him catch his breath on his own time, his fingers massaging the back of Reynauld's neck.  His nose was buried in his cheek, and he drew back slightly as Reynauld came down from his high.  Dismas placed a tender, almost shy kiss on his cheek before withdrawing completely. 

The position they were in was becoming more and more uncomfortable.  Reynauld let go of Dismas' leg, who took a second to find his balance.  They didn't look at each other.  Reynauld reached over Dismas' shoulder to turn off the water.  As soon as it was cut off, so was the magic of the moment. 

Dismas was nearly naked and started to shiver while Reynauld's uniform was soaked right down to his socks.  They let go of each other, and stepped back.  Reynauld undid Dismas' handcuffs long enough for him to dry himself off and get dressed, before he closed them again and changed into a new uniform himself. 

All the time, the rush of his own blood in his ears was still the only thing Reynauld could hear, along with a curious ringing.  It nicely balanced out the feeling of having swallowed a black hole. 

_What had he just done?  He must be insane.  This could have cost him his work, it still could.  Anybody could have come down, could have seen–_

"Your friend," Dismas said suddenly, interrupting Reynauld's inner meltdown. 

"What?  Who?" Reynauld stammered, confused.  This was not the right time to bring up any of his friends.  Merely thinking about how they would react if they knew was enough mortification for a lifetime. 

Dismas huffed.  "The soulless wannabe maxillofacial surgeon," he explained. 

Reynauld had an inkling that Dismas meant Guyot, but no idea why he would want to talk about the other police officer.  Still... "Soulless?" 

"Yeah.  Ain't that what they say about redheads?" 

"You don't really believe that," Reynauld said. 

"It don't matter what I believe," Dismas said with a slight trace of annoyance.  "Thing is, " he added, and Reynauld perceived something in his voice he recognized instantly. 

It was urgency. 

"He's the one interrogating Louet, ain't he?" Dismas asked.  "I was wondrin' if ya'd let me talk ta him.  Louet, not yer friend.  He's a dick." 

"Why?" Reyauld wanted to know, wary of where this was going.  He did not rise to the bait.  Just by how Dismas' accent thickened, Reynauld could tell that the other man was much more nervous about this request than he was letting on.  Probably because it was important to him. 

"Cause he might tell me something he won't tell you," Dismas retorted, as if Reynauld was an idiot for not thinking of the possibility. 

"I doubt that," Reynauld replied.  "Besides, you could just as well mean to silence him." 

"Because he sold me out?" Dismas asked with raised brows.  The grin he shot Reynauld looked strained, and his tone just missed his usual cocky drawl.  "Eh, thought by now ya'd know there's no honour amongst thieves.  'S all water under the bridge." 

"We made him an offer," Reynauld said.  "The same we did you.  Can you blame him?" 

"I don't blame 'im," Dismas said, and sighed, shoulders slumping.  Sensing that this approach was not going to work, he appeared to briefly war with himself, before he straightened again and looked Reynauld in the eye.  "I just wanna talk.  And I fucking hate asking for favours, but please.  Just let me talk ta 'im.  M' in cuffs anyway, and I know you're gonna be listening, might learn somethin' new that way.  I just... c'mon Rey.  Louet and I, we go way back.  Waddya got to lose?" 

What _did_ he have to lose?  Reynauld weighted his options.  Dismas wouldn't be able to attack Louet physically.  If he just wanted to grab the opportunity to fling some profanities his way well, that wasn't gonna harm the other prisoner.  Anything they said would be on record, and even if they had some code – that could be broken.  But this way at least they would find out about its existence, which was still better than nothing. 

"I'm pulling you out if that conversation takes a turn I don't like," Reynauld said, after arriving at a conclusion. 

"Sounds fair," Dismas sighed, and Reynauld realized that he had not expected to be granted this wish.  "Thanks."  It sounded like Dismas had developed a sudden toothache. 

The awkwardness of what they had done hung heavily over them until Reynauld cleared his throat.  They had both finished dressing, and he had stuffed his soaked uniform in a bag to take home at the end of the day.  "Let's go, shall we?" 

Dismas nodded without saying another word, and trudged along Reynauld as he led them both through the building, back to the interrogation rooms.  Either Dismas was too lost in thought, or too tired for his usual witticism, and the walk passed in uncomfortable, although not-quite tense silence. 

Until they went by the cafeteria, where he stopped as if rooted to the ground. 

"Is that a cattle prod?  Why is there a cattle prod next to the coffee machine?"  Dismas looked from said item back to Reynauld. 

"To keep away forensics and interns," Reynauld sighed.  "You should know why, since you already met the former.  This way."  He tugged on Dismas' arm, and the other man stumbled along, his eyes still glued to the coffee machine. 

But if Dismas wanted his chance of talking to Louet, he better hurry up.  It wasn't everyday that the Chief was gone and Reynauld was willing to bend the rules... a lot, actually. 

Louet had already agreed to work with the police.  He was afforded special status in exchange for what information he might have, the extraction of which was Guyot's job.  And if they were lucky, the two still had not finished. 

They met Guyot halfway to the cells.  He had just gotten himself some fresh coffee, and after Reynauld called out, he waited for them to catch up. 

"Have you seen Marci?" Guyot asked in greeting.  "I told her to get me some coffee, but it seems she forgot." 

Reynauld noticed how Dismas tensed next to him, but before he could explain, Guyot remarked,

"Hey, why is your hair all wet?" 

Dismas snorted and Reynauld suddenly felt like somebody had upended a bucketful of ice water over him.  In his mind, he saw Dismas wrapped around him, soaked clothes clinging to their forms as they rutted in the department showers, where everybody could have walked in on them.  Light help him, that had to be the stupidest thing he had ever done in his life, and he'd certainly had a thousand times more luck than brains to get away with it. 

He needed a distraction, and fast.  As luck would have it, Dismas had provided him with one. 

"I was wondering if Dismas could talk to your guy?" Reynauld asked without offering an answer, and tried to convey everything else that he could not say out loud via telepathy. 

Thankfully, Guyot's psychic abilities proved to be infallible.  "Sure," the redhead replied with a shrug.  "Just make sure to chain him out of reach." 

Well, that had been easier than anticipated.  Reynauld gave Dismas an encouraging nod and smile, while Guyot swept the key card through the lock system which emitted a low buzzing sound.  After a second, the red light flashed briefly before turning to green. 

"Weird," Guyot said, and raised the coffee cup to take a loud, slurping sip.  He sighed in contentment, licking his lips. 

Dismas watched him without bothering to conceal his disgust, and Reynauld tapped his foot impatiently. 

The light went out, and the doors finally opened. 

Louet was still sitting in the same chair, at the very table he had been handcuffed to.  He would have appeared to have nodded off, if not for the blood.  It pooled around his chair, filled the gaps of the tiled floor, giving off a sweet, thick odour.  Somebody had slit Louet's throat with enough force to lay open half his neck, and even stain the walls. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long time, I hope the chapter made up for it! :)


End file.
